


The First Movement

by Zeal_Ambition_Steel



Series: Our Starry Kingdom [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Assassins & Hitmen, Colonization, Crimes & Criminals, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, God Complex, Hero Complex, Military Backstory, Mind Manipulation, Organized Crime, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Political Alliances, Political Expediency, Poverty, Present Tense, Prostitution, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Social Commentary, Social Issues, Theft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2017-12-23 17:12:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeal_Ambition_Steel/pseuds/Zeal_Ambition_Steel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The city howled in pain <br/>as it moved to the rhythm <br/>of its foreign master <br/>in a world where revolution <br/>was forgotten <br/>and black was the road ahead. </p><p>The kingdom was divided by <br/>color, race, and creed, <br/>vomited children onto sidewalks <br/>and left them there to die <br/>while businessmen didn't dare look down. </p><p>Jordan Langley was a drug dealer, <br/>Michael King was a killer and a pianist, <br/>and Anna Scott was a thief. </p><p>When Jordan declared war on the system, no one could see what was coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

> “Freedom is what you do with what’s been done to you.”  
>  -Jean-Paul Sartre

Chapter 1

 

 

“The world’s a fuckin’ grease pan, I tell you,” Tyrone mutters to himself, sucking up cigarette fumes and spewing them into the general public without a care. He turns the page in the newspaper, taking a sip of convenience store coffee.

“I thought we’d been over this, Tyrone,” Jordan says, glancing into a shoe store window. No prices, dingy shoes, on sale for fifty percent off. Why don’t you just call yourself the bloody Goodwill? “The world’s always been ugly.”

“Yeah, but what I don’t get is why it’s always gotta be us on the receivin’ end, y’know? Pickin’ everybody’s scraps like we’re some kind of fuckin’ remora fish. The mob can shove it,” Tyrone rants on. “Wanna hear about this week’s horoscope?”

“What the fuck’s a remora fish?” Jordan scoffs. “And no, I’m not interested in some airhead’s vague description of a common situation predicted for me.”

“You’re a May baby, yeah? Twenty-seventh?”

“Will you cut it out, Tyrone?” Jordan snaps.

“Ah, there you are. A Gemini! This week your life will change when your energies will reveal you to be a great educator. Speakin’ of life-changin’ events, how’s the hunt for a third flatmate comin’ along?” asks Tyrone.

“No takers yet,” Jordan mutters.

“Better get crackin’ on that, or Michael’ll have your head for failing to come up with your end of the rent this month,” Tyrone reminds him.

“I’m just a bit short, that’s all. Today’ll change that, though,” Jordan says. Tyrone exhales deeply.

“That’s if it goes well.”

“So you’re an April baby, am I right?” Jordan asks, snatching the newspaper from Tyrone’s hands.

“Fuck off,” grunts Tyrone. Jordan grins.

“Ah, look at you! You fall right in with the Taurus! You’re a bloody bull, Tyrone! This is brilliant! Alright, alright, let’s read you a good one. You gotta challenge yourself and embrace the odds, chum.” Jordan tosses the newspaper at Tyrone, and it lams Tyrone right in the face before Tyrone manages to get a grip on it. “Generic as it gets.”

“Always a fight, always a challenge, life is,” grumbles Tyrone, straightening his clothes, folding the newspaper under his arm.

“Quit moanin’, we’re almost there. Besides, it’s not good for business if you’re in a foul mood. Any marketer knows that, so look a little cheery, eh?” Jordan suggests.

“Sod off, J.T.,” retorts Tyrone. Jordan rolls his eyes. “So get this, just a few blocks down from your flat, an entire family cannibalized each other.”

“I heard. The fuzz was all over it,” Jordan sniffs. “If the crowd of people practically standing at my door didn’t wake me up, the sirens certainly did.”

“And you sleep like a bear,” chortles Tyrone.

“Keep that up and your coffee’ll spill all over you,” Jordan chides his alleged partner in crime.

“Yeah, and we both know the impression a spattered shirt can make on a couple o’ wasted teeny boppers,” coos Tyrone.

“We gotta properly represent. It’s all about image,” Jordan argues.

“Yeah, and when image doesn’t suffice anymore, out come the guns, bang! Bang! Your whole family’s gone.”

“You heard about Kelly, right?” Jordan says.

“Kelly…right, he was that racist bastard in our sixth grade class?” Tyrone recalls.

“Yeah, he got into trouble with the coppers and the cooperative,” Jordan informs him. “What he did was he tried privatizing his division’s product, and without the cooperative, the coppers finally had a shot at keeping him in the slammer. Trouble is, the cooperative couldn’t have him getting off with just a slap on the wrist, so they made sure that he felt it where it hurt. His daughter, just a kid, really, was bludgeoned to death with bare fists. Torpedo just snuck in real sneaky-like and caved her face in. The wife got raped and now she’s havin’ an abortion.”

“Jesus,” hisses Tyrone. “Why’d you gotta tell me that this early in the day?” Jordan shrugs.

“World’s a big grease pan, and it’s gettin’ ready to fry out here,” Jordan remarks.

“It’s already fryin’. Ninety-five degrees out here,” Tyrone complains, fanning himself with his newspaper.

“We go by Celsius now,” drawls Jordan.

“Just one o’ the perks of bein’ colonized, along with this ridiculous slang. It’s more expressive than the one we grew up with, but I just feel it lacks the obscenity we used to have,” Tyrone ponders aloud.

“Yeah, because American English-”

“We don’t say that anymore-”

“-just wasn’t creative enough when you think about it,” Jordan finishes, glowering at Tyrone.

“We keep goin’ over this,” Tyrone whispers, eyes darting about. “We don’t use the A word anymore. Doesn’t work like that anymore.”

“Is this the building?” asks Jordan, pointing up at a red-brick box that looks like it has a future in the sweat shop industry.

“Yup, unless you see another fifty-eight,” Tyrone says, squinting about the neighborhood.

“Quit it. Taken outta context, you could be imitating Asians,” Jordan scolds him.

“Squinting helps me focus,” protests Tyrone.

“Yeah, sure,” Jordan huffs. They enter the building, finding a staircase behind a chipping blue door. They climb until they’re ruddy, panting, and dripping with sweat before they climb some more.

“Bloody stairs,” gasps Tyrone, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “We’re not as young as we used to be.”

“Hell, Tyrone, we’re only thirty-one,” Jordan says. “C’mon, we’ve got a ways to go.”

“How’re you so fit, J.T.? Is it cardio? ‘Cause I’ve been thinking about cardio lately, but I think weight-lifting might suit me better-”

“Come off it, Tyrone. We’re here,” Jordan says. “Best make ourselves presentable.” Tyrone wheezes and holds up a finger, hunched over, hands gripping his knees. He straightens and wipes his face with the lapel of his jacket. “Now that I have a proper look at you, you look like a car salesman, chain and all.”

“Well at least I don’t look like I’m trying to vacation in the Bahamas with the other rich white folks,” Tyrone mocks Jordan.

“It’s hot,” Jordan replies.

“I didn’t notice,” drawls Tyrone. They emerge onto the floor, approaching their destination.

“You wanna?” asks Jordan once they’re standing before the door.

“I did it last time,” Tyrone responds.

“But I did it three times in a row before that,” Jordan says.

“And I did it twice before that, so now we’re even. Just knock already,” Tyrone says.

“You owe me,” Jordan relents, raising his fist. The door opens, and the two share a glance before staring at the girl on the other side of the door. A lanky, blue-haired, raccoon-eyed girl stares at the pair, taking a drag from her cigarette before blowing the smoke into their faces. Tyrone coughs and Jordan holds his breath.

“What’re you bluegums here for?” she asks finally.

“Remy. Said he wanted the stock,” Jordan says after the smoke clears.

“Remy’s out in the alley,” she tells them, slamming the door in their faces.

In the stairwell, Jordan speaks again.

“She was a racist little bitch, wasn’t she?”  
“What the hell does bluegums even mean?” yells Tyrone.

“A lazy nigger, that’s what,” Jordan snarls.

“Civil War era, I’m guessing? Cheeky,” growls Tyrone.

“Remy’d better collar that thing before the same tongue that gets him off gets ‘em both hit,” says Jordan.

“Think it will?” chortles Tyrone.

“People’ve been hit for less,” Jordan murmurs.

“You would know, with that monster of a torpedo in your flat,” says Tyrone. “Did you look at Specter Watch this morning?”

“Yes,” sighs Jordan.

“He tore that poor man’s guts out and put ‘em in a bowl with his heart and some blood like spaghetti and meatballs. He’s gettin’ scarier by the day,” says Tyrone. “Are you sure you’re safe with the bloke?”

“Not like I have a choice,” grunts Jordan. “Wouldn’t leave me for the world.”

“Yeah, after all, you are his nanny,” agrees Tyrone.

“Oh, I think we’ve found Remy,” Jordan says brightly as the alley comes into view.

“Yeah, in the drecks as usual,” jokes Tyrone. They enter the alley, pasting smarmy smiles onto their faces.

“J.T.!” exclaims Remy, spreading his arms. “C’mere!”

“Remy!” laughs Jordan as he steps into the embrace. Remy claps his back. Jordan revolves with the hug, scowling at Tyrone when their eyes meet. Tyrone smirks in response. Jordan separates himself from Remy, resisting the urge to straighten his jacket.

“Been a bloody long while since I saw you last, mate,” says Remy, inhaling smoke like oxygen and coughing it back out into the grey world. Jordan politely refrains from telling Remy that smoking a blunt during this sort of transaction is likely to attract…unwarranted attention.

“We have new product,” Jordan announces. “The labs’ve put it through numerous pools of willing crazies and we’ve got results stating that it’s going to be a boom.”

“Like the C-32? Or has your lot finally upgraded?” Remy inquires, shoving his hands into his pockets and jutting his hips out, posturing for control of the situation. Jordan gives him a lingering look before he replies.

“We’re calling it X-78,” Jordan says.

“So it’s X-class? How is it administered?” asks Remy.

“It can be injected, smoked, snorted…very versatile, this one is. But you can’t fuck up the dosage. There’s a bit of room for error, but if you go more than a milligram too far, cardiac arrest,” Jordan explains.

“So this is some potent stuff,” Remy says quietly.

“Yeah,” Tyrone says slowly, and Jordan can see Tyrone’s fidgeting fingers itching for a weapon.

“How much a milligram?” asks Remy.

“Twenty pounds,” says Jordan.

“That’s fairly reasonable compared to the C-class shit that went for fifty an mg,” Remy tells himself. “When can you get me sixty milligrams?”

“The lab’s relatively close by. Mass production’s fairly easy with this one because we’ve gotten more qualified guys this time, so I’d say by next Saturday,” says Jordan.

“Usual shipment method?” asks Remy.

“The thing is about this product is that it raises a shitload more flags due to its force than the others ever did,” Tyrone adds. “So the shipment fee’s gonna be a bit higher than usual. Would sixty for the courier be acceptable?”

“I can afford it, if this one’s gonna sell as well as you think it will,” Remy says slowly.

“Charge exorbitantly, keep the cash,” Jordan suggests. “There’s already demand.”

“Alright. Call your guys and tell ‘em I want the sixty milligrams,” says Remy. Jordan turns to Tyrone.

“Well, don’t look at me, they don’t trust me,” hisses Tyrone. Jordan rolls his eyes, withdrawing his phone from his pocket. Remy’s eyes are darting about, and he’s rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. Jordan dials the number, listening to the buzzing of the ring. He surveys the area, and Tyrone’s reaching into his pocket.

Then there’s the yelling and the sirens and the alleyway’s flooded with coppers, gun raised, screaming,

“Freeze! Hands up! Don’t move!” Tyrone slips his hand from his pocket and Jordan hangs up, lowering his cell phone to the ground and standing to his full height, cool gaze fixed on Remy the Conniving Jew.  
Jordan and Tyrone are shoved against a car, their wrists effectively cuffed as they’re patted down. Tyrone scowls when the gun from his jacket is confiscated along with his trusty switchblade from his pants pocket.

“Bloody hell, Remy just stung us,” Tyrone grumbles.

“Anything you say can and will be used against you,” their captor informs them.

“Is that right,” says Jordan darkly, watching as Tyrone is manhandled into the vehicle. Jordan joins him soon enough. He shifts in the leather seat, trying to stretch out his legs.

The process is the same as usual. They’re squeezed into the sardine can known as the police station, their DNA is run in the database, their mug shots are taken, and their clothes, the last vestiges of their freedom, are snatched away and replaced with bright orange jumpsuits. Then they take the stroll to their favored cell.

“Hey, Warren,” Jordan greets one of the men in cages.

“Jordan, you’re back!” exclaims Warren, running to the bars. Jordan slaps Warren’s extended palm.

“Yup, you know how it is,” Jordan says.

“Is that Tyrone with you?” Warren calls after him.

“Yup!” Tyrone yells. A taser is applied to Tyrone’s back, and he jolts. Jordan tries not to laugh. Then they’re tossed into their pretty cage and the bars are shut behind them.

“Oh, look. Our posters from last time are ripped,” Jordan points out.

“Tossers just don’t know respect anymore,” comments Tyrone. Jordan reclaims his old cot, staring up at the ceiling.

“I wonder how long it’ll take ‘em to crack the suit this time,” Jordan says.

“Well, can’t beat last time. Couple o’ days, maybe, and that’s if they’re feeling generous seein’ as you let me tag along,” says Tyrone.

“Tyrone, you’re my best mate. We’ve been through thick and thin together and neither of us are dead yet. And you’re fuckin’ psycho, let’s face it,” Jordan says.

“I’m itchin’ for a cig over here,” mumbles Tyrone.

“And that, my friend, is why you don’t try the product,” Jordan chastises him. “You get dependent, and then you can’t get up stairs quite like you used to.”

“Sod off!” barks Tyrone.

“Still can’t believe Remy just turned on us like that,” says Jordan. “We went to school together and everything. We gotta stick together when things are like this, and he knew that.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t care anymore. I mean, the bint in the doorway should’ve been hint enough. Remy doesn’t know what he’s doin’ anymore, and he’s not interested in the world of the living no more,” hypothesizes Tyrone.

“He did look particularly gaunt this time around,” Jordan recalls. “I say we fuck him up when we’re sprung.”

“Here, here!” concurs Tyrone.

“Y’know who else we’ve gotta teach a lesson? The bloody mob. Because they’re gonna definitely cut my commission when they storm in here, and they’re gonna put thugs onto your trail to teach you not to get involved in their business and to make me feel like shit. They’ll suspend me from sales for a wee bit, and they’ll try finding a new guy, but, as usual, they’ll fail.”

“Nobody quite does it like you, J.T.,” says Tyrone.

“And the police, for that matter. Nosin’ about in things they don’t understand. We do this to survive, not because we particularly enjoy it. We do this because unlike all the rat race runners, we get paid. Decently, too. The law’s not interested in the story, though, they want to exercise the literal law and show us who’s in charge, show us that we’re powerless. They’ll slap some fines, jail time, and jail fees on us, and our record goes further down the drain, meaning that there’s definitely no getting out of the mob because of our steadily increasing visits to this hotel room here. I say screw the system,” Jordan says.

“Man, are you high?” asks Tyrone.

“Y’know what I am? I’m tired of being stuck between two groups of people who punish me in the same way for doing the same thing. The mob and the police aren’t really so different. The mob just happens to be a bit more sneaky and powerful,” Jordan says.

“Are you next going to compare them to government?” drawls Tyrone.

“Well, yeah, they all cater to and happen to be ruled by our wealthiest citizens,” Jordan says.

“You forget that the cooperative saved our lives,” says Tyrone.

“No, we joined gangs, which connected us to the cooperative. The cooperative proceeded to manipulate us into handing our brothers in for their use and now we’re a bunch of salesmen, torpedoes, and watchers,” Jordan argues.

“I got out while I had the chance and you didn’t,” Tyrone says. “You could’ve.”

“You know I couldn’t’ve,” whispers Jordan, hiding his face in his hands.

“You hate ‘im and yet you won’t leave ‘im, just like he won’t leave you. You love ‘im still somewhere, and yet-”

“Shut up, Tyrone,” hisses Jordan.

“I’m just saying. I mean, I cleaned up after his mess. I think I have as much right as you to be angry with ‘im,” Tyrone says. Jordan nods slowly. “C’mere.” Tyrone envelops Jordan into a hug, and Jordan nestles into Tyrone as he begins to sob. “So Remy backstabbed us,” Tyrone murmurs, rubbing Jordan’s back. “So we’re in jail. So the mob’s going to dock your pay and tell me to fuck off and give your flatmate a hard time, so the law’s gonna charge the mob and put you into further debt, so the law’s gonna keep you from livin’. You wanna fight back, Jordan? You sure you’re willin’ to live that kind o’ life on the chance that you might change something?”

“I’m not,” admits Jordan. Tyrone releases Jordan, giving him a somber smile.

“Thing is, I know you, J.T. You’re not the type to sit around doin’ nothin’. You get self-destructive. You take up a cause and you fight because it’s in your blood. See, I’m different. I’m ruthless. You remember the ol’ days, Jordan, you remember ‘em better than Chase. You know where you come from, and of the two of us, you’re the one with the best ideas. But the thing is, you’re afraid, Jordan. That’s why it is you’re always failin’. You’re afraid and you care just a bit too much,” Tyrone says to Jordan. He squeezes Jordan’s shoulder before he stands. “I think it’s about time you broke routine and did something wild.”

Jordan laughs, and it comes out sounding raspy and there’s a sniffle in there, but he’s laughing all the same.

“Mate, you’re not seriously tellin’ me-”

“I’m tellin’ you,” Tyrone interjects. “Because honestly, I think it’s about time we had a proper hero.” Jordan smiles.

“I’ll think about it.”

\---

“You lost a customer?” snarls Frank, swaths of spit flying into Jordan’s face.

“Well, actually, he lost us,” Tyrone inputs helpfully.

“Shut up, ya bloody nigger!” hollers Frank. Tyrone goes stone-cold and Jordan remembers how creative Tyrone can get when given a switchblade, click-click, click-click, click-click, flipping it in and out of its handle, glinting in the sun. Tyrone’s switchblade is still in his hand. “Ya keep gettin’ arrested and we keep havin’ to bail you out, Langley. You’re our best salesmen, but you’re too costly.” Jordan exchanges a glance with Tyrone. “So we’ll be lettin’ ya go for a while.”

“Alright,” sighs Jordan. “Happy hunting.” He pats Frank on the back. Frank frowns as he turns.

“Look, Jordan, ya know I don’t like this-” Frank begins.

“Just as much as I hate the term you just used,” Jordan cuts him off. “Don’t worry, Frank. We’re still friends.”

“Jordan,” Frank pleads with him. “Don’t do anything stupid this time ‘round-”

“When’ve I ever done anything stupid?” says Jordan flatly.

“When it comes to him-” Frank starts, but closes his mouth at the look Jordan gives him. “Look, mate, I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. Tell the higher-ups I’d like a word next Saturday,” Jordan requests. “Tell them it’s important.” Frank nods like an eager puppy. “Tyrone, get over here.” Tyrone joins Jordan as they walk down the bustling street.

“You’re gonna do it, aren’t you?” marvels Tyrone. “You’re gonna take ‘em both.”

“I’ll need a team, first. People I can trust.”

“I’m sorry, mate, but I can’t get in on this,” Tyrone says. “I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

“I know. But if you could throw some names my way, I’d be very grateful. I’m gonna get home now,” replies Jordan.

“Take it easy out there,” Tyrone murmurs, patting Jordan’s arm.

“Stay low for a few weeks,” Jordan advises him. “And be careful.”

“You too,” Tyrone says after a moment’s pause. They go their separate ways.

\---

Anna sits beneath a stack of crates in an alleyway, the epicenter of an earthquake as shivers jolt through her. The rain pelts the ground like the fists of an angry lover, and it’s a piece of home that she can’t seem to shake. Her clammy white phantom hands cling to the ad section of the newspaper, and she can feel the swell of thunder rattling in her bones, the bare knuckles of rain against her cheeks, there’s an army in the thunder, she thinks, boots shaking the world with each tremendous footprint the soldiers leave behind, the footprints of fathers that sons can never quite fill.

Anna can’t tell if she’s crying or if it’s just the rain, but tears streak her face all the same. Women clutch tighter to their purses as they stare at her, boys spit at her, girls flee before the guilt reaches their eyes, men stare too long at her body before they pretend they never saw the shameful reminder of what they could become with one slip of the tongue. The flies are the ones who love her most, flitting about her face, waiting for her to die.

The lamp in the alleyway is flickering like Anna’s life and she bites her lip, opens the newspaper, and reads it by insufficient lighting with her father’s green eyes, the one genetic inheritance he left her before he got himself killed in India. She finds the ad that strikes her like a bolt of lightning. Two-thousand pounds a month for rent. She has two-thousand and five-hundred pounds stashed in the high school locker she uses to keep her things in. She stumbles to her feet, reading aloud the address: Four-fifty-three Hicks Street, apartment 3A, Brooklyn. Twenty-five-hundred pound down payment, rent five-hundred a month. She whispers the address like a prayer, the only one she has left to a reckless and negligent being called, “luck.” She maunders the city in search of home, in search of Brooklyn. The sun rises like it always does, and Anna’s world goes black.

The greying pavement is in disrepair, and in the cracks is a darkness that Anna cannot avert her eyes from. An ant scampers out from the darkness of the crack in the sidewalk. A leather shoe stomps on it, and she swears she can hear its last, pathetic scream as it crunches underneath the sole.

Men and women dressed to impress walk the crumbling sidewalk, briefcases thumping against one another’s knees, designer shoes clapping against the pavement. Women clutch their purses to their sides, eyeing all those around them, their eyes lingering on Anna. Teenage boys keep their hands shoved in their pockets, one hand clamped around a cell phone, one around a wallet. Men stand tall, eyes set forward, unblinking, jaws taut, fists clenched.

Anna is staring up at them, breaths coming out in quiet little gasps. She is splayed across the side of the sidewalk, and people take care to step over her arm. People focus on it when they bypass her. Guilt, maybe? No, not guilt, she thinks. Guilt would lead to action. Flies buzz by her ears, and she knows that they are waiting on her to die. Food for the flies, she thinks, what an end for me.

A woman peers down at Anna, pauses for a moment. Anna’s eyes widen. Then Anna speaks.

“Please,” Anna rasps. The woman turns sharply from Anna. Anna curls into a ball, and her stomach clenches, her body cringing. All she knows is that she is dying. She’s tired, and already she’s fainted twice in this same spot. There’s no food except for the food carts teetering over the side of the curb. She can see the tomatoes. Tomatoes. Red, plump, juicy tomatoes. She could take a tomato. She doesn’t even like the seeds in them, but she’s sure that after six days without even a scrap of food she’d like it just fine, seeds and all.

She told herself she wouldn’t do this again. She told herself she’d be good this time, that she’d be honest, that she’d work just like other people. But she knows if she doesn’t, she’ll die, and that is unforgivable when she is the daughter of the Survivor.

Anna eyes the cart, and she trembles—only there’s not enough flesh to quaver in her stomach anymore. She needs it. She needs the tomato. But she can’t be too greedy. He’ll notice if she is. She curls her fingers into the groove between bricks in the wall of the building behind her, and works to hoist herself into a standing position. She needs food. That’s a girl, Anna, she thinks to herself. Good job. Now go to the cart. Be casual, like the kid.

She approaches the cart, looks at the tomatoes. Her hand swipes one up, and she hides it behind her back. She watches the seller still talking to the woman and her stomach drops. She stole from him. He’s just as bad off as she is. But he’s smiling and fat. And he’s got food if he ever needs it. He’s got all these tomatoes and I have nothing, she thinks. She walks away, and her face is burning and she swears she can feel the seller’s eyes on her and he’s going to chase her, he saw her, she knows it goddammit, but nothing happens—wait, he looked at her, what if he knows, what if he knows? He looks away. So he doesn’t know. A bump to her shoulder jolts her from her thoughts, and Anna crumples to the ground, tomato in hand. She feels the weight of it in her hand, the red, shining, smooth skin. She squeezes it experimentally. It’s not nearly as ripe as the tomato the boy got. He probably has more experience at picking tomatoes than I do, she thinks. She raises the tomato to her lips and takes a bite. The juice, seeds and all, runs down her mouth and she laps it up, takes another bite. The sugar. The feeling of sinking her teeth into something after days of nothing. It’s bliss. This is the most delicious tomato I’ve ever eaten, she thinks with a smile.

She sits propped up against the exterior wall of a building, a smooth, fleece blanket draped over her legs. The people keep walking, and her designated money bucket remains empty. She packs her things, stands, and joins the flux of people. She darts around one man, then another, and reaches into a cart, retrieving an apple. She passes another while taking a bite out of the apple and snatches up a roll. She flits about the crowd, eating.

The trick is to steal when crowds are walking about, usually in the morning or at five o’clock pm—rush hour here in New York City. The second trick is to never remain in front of the same person twice, so that the witnessed steal is untraceable. She steals with her hood up, then takes it down to avoid recognition from the witness. Then she turns a corner, entering the upward-heading crowd, and walks in the opposite direction—Downward.

Anna heads down Fulton Street until she can see the Brooklyn Bridge. It’s a rotting chunk of wood, but it still manages to hold. She likes seeing it in the daytime, looming over the glistening water, a black form against the blue sky, the clouds drifting over it. She loves New York City too, so far. She’s sure she won’t like it as much when winter arrives, but by then she will have found a home. Hopefully. She tosses the apple core into a trash can, trudging up the street. The faces of the approaching crowd are all unfamiliar, like most in the city.

Gnats buffet her face when she reaches the Brooklyn bridge, and she attempts to swat them away with her hand.

She reaches Brooklyn, and is happy to be in the second poorest borough of New York. She has visited all of them, and Bronx, by far, was the most frightening. After seeing it in the daytime, saw the tension, she knew that conflict would spill out into the night. Anna makes a point never to sleep on the Bronx streets. Especially after she barely escaped a rape and beating situation.

She reaches Brooklyn in good time. Though Brooklyn’s the third poorest borough of the city, it’s easier to blend in than in Staten Island, per se.

She takes out her smaller notebook, referring to her checklist:

Grab clothes from the locker.  
Take a shower.  
Check another hospital.  
Steal.  
Buy a space in 3A.

Anna nods, tucking her notebook back into her backpack. She finds the subway sign, and descends the flight of stairs. She watches for the crowd, and she deems that it is just enough to slip by security. She glances over at the guard whose job it is to force everyone to use a Metrocard to get through the turnstile. That’s more money than she can afford on a daily basis.

“Hey, did you know-” begins a businessman, turning back to his friend. Now. Anna scurries forward, hunched over. She ducks underneath the turnstile, and she can hear the security guard shouting.

“Get back here, ya little runt! I’ve seen you at this six times now! What the fuck d’you think you’re doing, breaking the law! GET BACK HERE, RUNT!” Anna keeps her hood up, dashing around the corner. She needs to meld into the crowd, and quickly. Anna slows her pace to a walk, turning a corner. She jumps into the subway tracks, and sprints into the darkness of the tunnel. The three o’clock train is coming soon. She can hear it.

Anna slips into the tunnel branching off from the subway tunnel. Maintenance tunnel. No one uses maintenance tunnels anymore—Except for vagrants, of course. Anna meanders down the tunnel, using her cell phone as a flashlight. Is it right next, or left? She stops in the large, circular room, staring up at the grate overhead. She can see people’s feet as they walk over the grate, and she turns slowly, trying to remember which tunnel will take her to her next destination.

The area is dark, cold, dripping, and the blare of traffic seems distant, the darkness is drenching her, and it’s like she’s in Wonderland or something like that. She’s lost in the tunnels again, and which way should she go? She knows that it’s west of here, but which way is west when her cell phone compass isn’t—oh. Anna laughs at herself, withdrawing a compass from her pocket. She reads the inscription:

“To Lieutenant Freddy Scott, the Survivor.”

Anna smiles down at it, lovingly running her thumb across the engraving. The watch is pure gold, and it could be sold for a pretty penny, but Anna would not part with it for the world, no, not even the Tyrant could take this piece of her father from her, not even her mother’s diffident muteness could persuade her to cast it into the moldy box with all the items to be sold. Besides the picture and the journals, it’s the only piece of him that Anna owns, and never would she give it away because they all got to know him and she can’t even remember him save for that one time.

Playing, laughing in the sun, the warmth setting her skin on fire. Laughing—laughing at the sky, the wheat whipping her flesh, the cornstalks swaying in the breeze, the pungent scent of cow manure tickling her nose, Freddy Scott’s deep laugh echoing in her ears as he picked her up, swung her into the air so close to that blue, blue sky and she was laughing, clutching at his face; those were the days when her hands were so small and plump and fragile, when her arms were stubby and short, when he held her little hands and his shining green eyes stared into hers and saw a little piece of him there inside of her—and then, just like that, they took him away.

She sniffs, flicking the compass open with her thumb. There is a little pang in her thumb, and she knows there will be a nick in the skin, but she ignores it.

“Captain Scott,” she whispers in the silence, hearing the drops of water—drip, drip, drip—”Where shall we set a course to next?” The compass’ hand twirls until it is pointing north. Anna slowly turns, and the compass’ hand begins to point west. “Set a course west,” she murmurs, “where we shall bathe, eat, and restock before we set out again. Aye-aye, Cap’n, we’ll go now.” She ducks into the dark, dank passageway, clicking the compass shut and tucking it back in her pocket.

Anna finds the little door on the side once she reaches the next chamber, and pulls it out. She crawls into the cramped, square-shaped tunnel, breathing in through her nose, out through her mouth. Her traitorous heart beats erratically in her chest anyway, but it’s worth a shot to try to remain calm. There’s no use in panicking.

“Panicking leads to failure,” she remembers Freddy saying in his journal, “and failure is unacceptable.” She continues until she reaches a long, vertical tunnel lined with a ladder. Anna begins to climb, cringing at the wet, slimy texture of the ladder and the moss hanging from it. God knows how many animals died on this thing, she thinks, nose twitching.

She lifts the manhole cover, emerging from the muck of the subway tunnels in relatively good condition. She replaces the cover, reveling in the solitude of the boiler room. Steam is emitted from the machines surrounding her, and a long beam of light filters in, illuminating the dust, from a window so high up that it would take a long ladder to reach it. Anna heads for the door, exiting from the boiler room and into the school’s hallway.

She ascends the staircase until she reaches the third floor, sweaty, panting, and florid. Why does it have to be so goddamn hot in here? She thinks, wiping her forehead. She goes through the door, passing closed classrooms, fingers dragging along the row of lockers as she searches for number 643.

She opens the locker. She sighs at the sight of the clutter— Wellingtons, goggles, a scarf, mittens, a hat, a tattered peacoat, a file, rope, a leathery jacket, a baggy, plaid shirt, trinkets, food scraps, notebooks, envelopes, clothes, and a scrawled, handwritten note:

If you ever need me, call: 201-342-9873  
-Uncle Wes

Anna feels the familiar, rising fury and she wants to rip that paper to shreds and scream, “LIAR!” She settles for slamming her fist into a nearby locker instead, wailing in pain, eyes tearing up. Before they have a chance to fall she wipes the tears away. Wesley told her he loved her, he was her fucking uncle goddammit and he abandoned her when she needed him and now she’s stuck here in the city without a home because he doesn’t want to have a political weakness and that’s what she is, just a weakness, a blemish, a sore, and she’s not weak, she’s proved that ten times over. She’s proved it to the Tyrant, to the Witch, to the city, to the subway tunnels, to the streets, to the little boy who taught her to steal, and to her father and she wants Wesley to see that, see what she is. She’s a survivor too.

Anna fetches shampoo, conditioner, a filthy, damp towel, and a razor from the locker. She slams the locker shut, and walks, slumped over, to the locker room bathrooms. She picks the lock on the boys’ locker room door, slipping inside, shutting the door behind her. Sometimes she’s glad the city’s so poor. No janitors. She turns on the light, and the locker room flickers into visibility.

She chooses her usual shower stall, and twists the faucet. Water gushes out in a powerful spray. Anna strips down, setting her clothes onto the nearby bench. She takes her things into the stall, shutting the door behind her. She steps into the shower, shivering, covering her breasts with her arms, she needs warmth and the floor is so cold and grimy against her feet. She shudders under the spray of water, and it runs over her body, and the water beneath her is brown with filth and she wonders how it all accumulated so very quickly. She rubs her goosebump-ridden flesh with her hands, rubbing dirt off. Flies circle the shower head, buzzing, and Anna rubs shampoo into her scalp. She has to ignore them.

She dunks her head underneath the water, hands pressing against the wall as water slides down her back, and her back begins to jerk, her shoulders heaving, and she’s sobbing into the silence—why does it have to be like this?

\---

Michael parks his car outside the temple of excess, the home of one Major Thomas Ellis. The lights by the front door barred by Grecian columns stream a steady creamy yellow that does not flicker, does not threaten to collapse. This mansion is a tribute to permanence and to brazen action, to expedience and a lack of ethics, to perseverance and a decline into the comforts of the life afforded by civility. In essence, Michael sees the den of a former predator who fit back into his suit of prey quietly to appease his superiors. True predators enjoy the hunt far too much to relinquish it to the promise of safety. True predators know the thrill of the hunt, the exact pressure necessary to pierce flesh with a variety of utensils.

Michael fits his mask to his face, exiting from his car, shouldering his bag.

“The front cameras are now yours,” Joe MacAllister’s voice garbles through his earpiece. The Specter rings the front doorbell. A woman answers, dressed as prey, black-and-white, like such absolute colors can maintain the pretense of restraint in the face of temptation. Her mouth opens and she stands agog in his presence. He does not recognize the creature’s fleshy, moving mask. His hand squeezes her cheeks, and a whoosh of air leaves her. He lowers his hands to her jaw, and he jerks it to the right. She crumples at his feet.

The Specter glides into the palace, setting his bag on the steps, where he unzips it. He withdraws a knife.

“Agents two and three have disabled their targets,” Joe alerts him. The Specter creeps through the hallway, peering around a corner. A butler is chatting with another member of the staff, most likely a maid. Why do they still stand?

The Specter must not allow outsiders to leave this tomb alive. The Specter covers the butler’s mouth, slipping the blade between his ribs. The butler falls, twitching. The Specter’s eyes lock with the terrified maid’s, and he lunges into her, slitting her throat and helping her to the ground.

He stands, eyeing the blood on his plastic suit. The blood of insignificant prey now taints him. He will clean it once in his own den. The Specter advances further toward the room where the Major is reportedly sitting: The study. The Specter considers the implications of the Major being killed in the study with a knife. It really is quite Clue-like.

The Specter enters the Major’s room, eyeing the expensive scotch tumbler, the lit fireplace, the bookshelves stacked with first editions.

“Lucas, I’m busy right now. I will tuck you in after I finish reading this,” the Major says from his armchair that faces the fireplace, back to the room’s entrance.

His sock-clad feet tread across the carpet, slow and sure. The creaky floorboard is three paces ahead of him. He strides over it, and he is now standing directly behind the armchair in lieu of its shadow. Major Thomas Ellis is reading a military report about the Middle East and the current unlikelihood of winning in the next three months as initially projected. The Specter’s hand slowly goes to Ellis’s chin as his other hand, gripping the knife, lowers to neck level.

Ellis looks up, and there is a split second of complete shock, and it is always so surreal to realize that the Frowning Specter is here for you, and then you wonder what it was that you did to drive the mob to pay such a hefty expense for the Specter’s service, and then you’re dead.

The Specter cuts his thought process short before the Major’s mouth opens to loose a scream. Blood splashes all over the armchair, and the man is twitching, gurgling, gasping. The Specter gently retrieves the electronic tablet from the man’s hand, marveling at the sight of the Major’s eyes rolling back into his head.

He goes through the emails until he finds the one sent by the mob’s best hacker, Joe MacAllister, and opens the email. Immediately the screen flashes, and numbers are lining up in every which direction. The Specter returns the tablet to the Major’s corpse. With a final sputtering breath, the Major slips into death. The Specter plunges the knife into the Major’s midsection, opening him up and allowing his entrails exposure. The Specter slips a gloved hand into the rib cage and tears the right lung from its cage of connected organs and bone. The Specter unwinds the man’s intestines with practiced hands, tying them in ribbons around the lung and placing the gory present in the Major’s lap atop his tablet.

Greed is what killed the Major. A pity that so many died so young for his peculiar tastes.

The Specter washes gloved hands in the sink, and does not look in the mirror.

The Specter cleans the sink.

The Specter eyes the bodies strewn across the ground floor of the palace before the Specter exits from the house through the front door.

“Play Rhapsody in Blue,” he says to his car. The Specter unmasks himself. The clarinet opens, and Michael breathes a sigh at its elegant, rich sound. The triumphant orchestra heralds the dawn. The piano. Michael leans back in his seat and listens. The smooth sounds of a city long ago flow throughout his car, and Michael leaves the mansion just as smoothly.

Michael enjoys driving. It is the speed that is especially attractive to him, the knowledge that with a single mistake he could cause mass destruction. It is the ultimate weapon, for it is mobile, it is made of flammable material, it has powerful momentum, and it is too heavy to lift. A car is also a trap.

He often finds himself associating Jordan with cars. Jordan is as powerful, as quick, as easily stolen, and as varying on the interior as a car selection. Of course, Jordan’s father is a mechanic, and after knowing Jordan for so long, it is only natural that he would come to associate Jordan with his father’s profession. He resolves to think on another subject.

His cell phone rings, and he answers.

“Hey, Michael.”

“Jordan,” he greets the speaker.

“Meet me at McKinley’s?” asks Jordan. “As soon as you can get here, of course.”

“Ten minutes approximately.” Michael pauses before he asks his intended question. “Where were you in the past week?”

“The usual.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s fine. Just be here, alright?” Jordan ends the call. Michael brings the car to a halt at a red light, scratching at his upper lip where new stubble is growing. He sniffs. The time after a kill is always the worst. He knows that theoretically he is unable to emote after what they did to him. He knows that killing was what he was programmed to do. And yet there is always a crash afterwards, like his nature chafes against all that is now natural to him. He remembers the days when he used to laugh, smile, show his feelings like everyone else. Now he looks for these indicators in others, pinpointing the behaviors as receptiveness or a lack thereof. Michael is very good at what he does. The best.

When Michael finishes parallel parking his car into a space, he climbs out from its confines, towering over the sidewalk and all the prey huddling about it, talking quietly to avoid alerting him to their presence. If they had looked at him, he might not have been so forgiving.

He enters the pub, a travesty of a place, really. Men gamble in the back corner, an Irish folk band plays, and Jordan is sitting at the bar, chatting with the bartender, a wee college brat in posh clothes. Michael orders a beer from the waitress, and he pays her in cash. Michael slides into the seat beside Jordan. Jordan’s business clothes suit him well—black trench coat, black jacket, black pants, shined shoes, white shirt, black tie. The collar’s rumpled and the shirt’s dingy. The jacket’s covered in tufts of fur.  
“Where have you been?” Michael asks, sipping at his beer, eyes fixed on Jordan, waiting for his eyes to duck and cover. Jordan’s eyes are predictable as they focus on a point directly to Michael’s right.

“Detained,” Jordan answers.

“I take it that it was the literal sense,” says Michael, attaching an airy tone to his voice.

“You’re not wrong. Tyrone and I got turned on, is all. I’m alright,” Jordan assures Michael, putting on his brave face. Michael narrows his eyes at Jordan’s attempt to distance Michael from his problems. Jordan seems to have been under the impression for years now that Michael needs his protection, and every time this resurfaces, Michael feels as irritated as he did the first time.

“Something’s different about you,” Michael observes aloud. “You appear to have made a decision.” Jordan smiles grimly.

“Michael, you might not want to stay in the apartment,” Jordan tells him. Michael widens his eyes to prompt Jordan to elaborate. “I’m gonna wage a war I can’t win against the cooperative and the law.”

“Understand that they will ally themselves to crush you if you should prove a threat,” Michael says after a moment’s deliberation. His eyes slowly crawl toward Jordan’s face. “But you know that.”

“I know that. If they’re allied, then they become a singular entity, and the people will see their evil,” Jordan says.

“People rarely are willing to see,” Michael points out with a gentle. rumbling quality to his voice.

“I don’t have a choice,” whispers Jordan.

“What did you do?”

“I can’t do…I can’t…I can’t do what I’ve done for nearly two decades now anymore,” murmurs Jordan. “And I know that it pays well, that it’s my friends I’m involved with…but I can’t let other people get crushed in between anymore. I don’t want to see the system win.” Michael inhales deeply, reclining into his seat.

“I don’t see how you can win alone,” Michael says.

“I never said anything about being alone,” chuckles Jordan. “I’ve got Tyrone looking around. I’m gonna look for the right people, and then next Saturday, I declare war.”

“Allow me a place on this team of yours,” says Michael. Jordan purses his lips and breaks eye contact with Michael.

“You know I can’t do that,” says Jordan.

“I know I can force you,” responds Michael. Jordan furrows his brows at Michael.

“That bad, huh?” he says. Michael remains silent and permits Jordan to mull the concept over.

“Michael…what do you think you could contribute?” Jordan asks him, and Michael’s lips thin. He knows that Jordan has been leading him to this question in particular. Jordan wants Michael’s help, and Jordan also knows how little Michael cares for verbal manipulation. Jordan must be desperate indeed.

“What do you believe I could?” Michael says instead.

“I’m sorry,” Jordan says.

“Of course,” Michael says quietly. “And money?”

“We’ll be completely privatized. I have access to labs that even the cooperative doesn’t, labs they don’t even know about. A new product is due for arrival very soon, and the X-78 will be our modern-day heroin. This one? This one will be our generation’s ecstasy,” Jordan says. “I doubt you’ll go out of business, either. Your skill set is too valuable.”

“You plan to handle the business end, then,” Michael says.

“I’m good with it,” says Jordan. “I’m affable enough and dastardly enough.” Michael’s lip twitches upward.

“Yes, you are.” Jordan is an interesting specimen indeed; not quite predator, not quite prey. He is an omnivore.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anna, Jordan, and Michael's paths collide.

“Coincidences mean you’re on the right path.”   
-Simon Van Booy, Love Begins in Winter: Five Stories

 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

 

She snatches up a pack of gummy bears, darts around the shopkeeper, and then she grabs an apple. She passes the shop, then examines the shopfront of another store. She grabs at a container filled with cupcakes for sale. Anna tosses it all into her large bag, walking off. 

“STOP!” yells a portly man. She does not turn, if she turns she is guilty and she cannot allow the public to even think for a second that she is guilty. Several people turn, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “No, the girl up there!” Anna walks faster. 

“You!” shouts a woman from behind her. “The shopkeeper wants to talk-” Anna shoves past several men ahead of her, pulling her hood up. Shit. She ducks underneath a woman’s arm, and she sees bottles of milk. Her hand darts out and takes one, adding it to her bag. 

“You, why’d you steal that?” She can hear fast footsteps, and she knows that she’s being chased. She moves right on the sidewalk, ducking to pretend to tie her shoelaces. The portly shopkeeper runs past her, and she next moves into the street, crossing it. A car screeches to a halt in front of her, and Anna jogs the rest of the way across the street. Anna keeps running, and she can hear the man shouting at her, cursing, screaming, 

“STOP YOU LITTLE WHORE!” But Anna keeps running, she’s good at running, and she feels she’s flying, like she’s shedding years of dust and breathing the summer air, sweat crawling languidly down her skin and she stole and she’s alive—the sun’s burning her already-burnt skin further but she keeps running, she can put the sunscreen on later, peel off the dead skin, and put some aloe lotion on it. She keeps running until she can’t hear the shouts anymore, keeps running until her stomach gets sore and she feels she’ll throw up. 

Anna stops, gasping for breath in front of an antique shop. She then remembers all the food and she prays that the glass bottle of milk isn’t shattered. She peers into the bag, wiping sweat from her stinging eyes. Not broken. She breathes a relieved sigh, and she stumbles over to the alleyway by the antique shop. She plops onto the hard ground. The alleyway’s so narrow that she can’t even spread her legs out, so she settles instead for bending her legs and propping her feet up against the opposite wall. She sets her bag on the ground and takes out the cupcakes first. 

Anna unwraps one carefully, watching little yellow crumbs fall from it. It has white frosting, her favorite kind. She takes a bite into the cake, licking the frosting off her lips. She feels a sharp pain in her lips, and she winces, cupping her hand over them. Burnt. She needs to stay inside for a little while. But if she does that, how will she get food? And would she be found by the authorities, holed up in the Brooklyn High School’s boiler room pigging out on pilfered cupcakes? 

She sighs. She takes another bite, ignoring the customary pang of her lips. She relishes in the vanilla taste of it before she reaches for the bottle of milk. She curls her lips around it as not to further irritate them, taking a long gulp of the stuff. She’s been neglecting calcium in her diet lately, and she’s slightly worried about what it’ll do to her bones. She takes another bite of the cupcake, then she sets it back into the container and waits. Her stomach is not hurting yet. She waits another long moment. Nothing.

Anna returns to the cupcake and finishes it off, following it with a long gulp of milk. The alleyway provides her with some shade, and for that she’s thankful. Now, she thinks, time to get down to business. She pulls off her coat, whimpering as it brushes against her searing arms. She glances down at her arms, which are cherry-red and irritated. She can see the little flecks of peeling skin, and she begins to pick at them, wincing slightly before she pulls off transparent, waxy-looking pieces of her flesh. She flicks it onto the pavement, and continues the exercise. She’s lucky she hasn’t exposed her back to the sun, otherwise this would be even more painful. 

She’s been wearing a baseball cap lately to hide her hair from the blistering sun, and she’s glad that she had the prescience to bring one. Now she can avoid head-burns. 

Anna surrenders to the fact that there’s no way she can pull off all this skin in a day, so she closes her container of cupcakes, wary of the swarm of ants crawling over a rabbit’s sprawled-out corpse. Anna shoves the cupcakes into the bag, next withdrawing the apple. Anna’s teeth puncture the red skin of the apple, and she takes a chunk out of it, savoring the crunch. She chews, staring at the wall ahead of her. She tries to ignore the repugnant stench of the decomposing rabbit. Tries. 

She hears slamming metal to her left, and she turns slowly. A man, burly and bearded, stands there. He looks like the type of man that you’d trust with your house cats; ruddy-faced, plump cheeks, and almond-shaped eyes, he looked trustworthy. He beamed down at Anna, ignoring the swarm of ants still scurrying into and over the rabbit. 

“You wanna come inside?” he asks her.

“Where?” responds Anna, pausing in the chewing of her apple.

“I own the antique shop,” he answers. 

“Are you gonna pull any creepy moves on me?” Anna asks slowly.

“No, no!” exclaims the man, horrified, waving his hands back and forth. “I would never-”

“Good,” says Anna. “Just a warning though—try anything and you’ll regret it.” Anna packs up her food into the bag, and struggles to adjust her position until her posture is erect. She steps over the horrible sight of the rabbit, holding her breath to avoid the stench. 

“Ghastly sight, isn’t it?” remarks the man gruffly, staring sympathetically at the rabbit.

“Yeah.” replies Anna. The heat isn’t helping much. Anna pauses to stare at the rabbit before entering the antique shop. It’s dimly lit, and Anna can see polished, golden candelabras, lamps with ornate designs on their shades, and vases of Chinese origin. Everything is beautiful. 

“I make a good living over here. Lots of people coming back to enhance the individuality of their homes now,” says the man wryly.

“I never caught your name,” responds Anna.

“Collin Ginsberg. And you are?”

“Anna.” She pauses, glances down at her bag. “Can I sit and eat in here?”

“Follow me.” He leads her into a door behind the counter, and there’s a better lit room there. A kitchen. 

“You live in your shop?” Anna asks, arching a brow.

“Well, yes,” replies Collin, shrugging. “It’s nice enough.” Anna sits at the kitchen table, putting her bag on top of it. She takes out her apple and continues to eat it. “You look like you’ve had a hard few months. Runaway? Beggar?”

“Poor,” says Anna, biting into her apple. 

“You’re on the cusp of a perfect lie,” smiles Collin. “Oh, no matter, you’ve got years to practice, whereas I have maybe three decades left at the rate my business goes.”

“So you’re what, twenty?” asks Anna. “Average lifespan for a male is fifty.”

“No, I’m not confined to the average. My family tends to live well into the nineties. I’m thirty-five, in fact.” Anna raises her eyebrows at this. “What, no gawk?”

“Sorry, I just…” Anna struggles to form it with words. “I’m not really that…well…open.” 

“That’s in your favor then,” says Collin. “So, why’re you in the city really?” 

“Um…well…”

“Let’s be honest, you and I, shall we?” he prods her. Anna remains silent. “Clever. Whatever you’re going to say is a lie, so remaining silent technically remains within the bounds of my request.” It’s really not that clever, Anna thinks. If you wait long enough in silence, usually the interrogator shuts up and gets nervous. “Alright then, if you’re not willing to discuss your backstory, how about we discuss your present? Your arms are sunburnt, your face is sunburnt, and you’re skinnier than a twig. You have a bag bulging with food, though. Did daddy get a pay raise?”

“No.”

“You’re really not all that amusing after all,” sighs Collin. “Alright, how about this? I’ll tell you about myself if you tell me something about yourself. No lying.” Anna nods, finishing off her apple. She stands and drops it into the trash before returning to her seat. She uncaps the bottle of milk and takes a long gulp. She has nothing better to do than this anyway. 

“I sell antiques,” he says pleasantly. Anna sets down the bottle of milk. 

“I was just eating in an alleyway,” she returns. 

“I own two cats.”

“I’m thinking about eating a cupcake.”

“You have cupcakes?”

“Yes,” says Anna.

“Mind if I have one?” asks Collin. Anna opens the container, takes a cupcake for herself, and slides it across the table. Collin chooses one after a few moments. “I was just wondering which was the smallest. On a diet, you see.” If only I could have that luxury, thinks Anna. 

“I’m trying to keep fat on,” retorts Anna. Collin eyes Anna for a moment before he speaks again.

“I smoke from hookahs and deal in intel on the shadier characters in New York.” 

“You’re into intel?” she asks him. Collin nods. “I want to be in intel in the military when I grow up.”

“I wanted to be in the navy as a child.”

“I want to have a home when I grow up.”

“I ran away from home as a teenager and drove around Europe,” says Collin.

“I ran away,” says Anna. She covers her mouth.

“Knew it!” shouts Collin, standing. Anna’s eyes widen as he walks away from the table.

“Please don’t call the police, I can’t go home-” 

“I’m not,” he assures her. “I’m just doing a victory walk. Alright, now, Anna, did you steal those goodies?”

“No,” she says quickly.

“Liar.”

“Fine, I did! Happy?” yells Anna. 

“Even better!” clamors Collin, stroking his beard in triumph. “So, I finally hit the jackpot.” 

“Whatd’you mean?” scoffs Anna.

“I need a thief,” deadpans Collin, “and you clearly need money. Here’s my idea: I give you a picture and information on where to find the antique, you steal it for me. I repaint some of it, and then I sell it. Then I pay you a fourth of its price.”

“A fourth?” repeats Anna. 

“I sell for good money. How else can I afford all that I do? I am living beneath my means, actually.”

“How do you sell so well?” asks Anna. 

“I sell so well because first, we’re in Greenwich Village and this is the college kids with a savings account town, second, old couples like to see what I have to offer, and third, I’m damn good at marketing. I’m always having a sale. People love to see that they have reduced prices, but really the prices aren’t reduced at all. I just make up ludicrously high numbers to increase the object’s value in the eyes of the customer. Nobody’s caught me yet and I don’t intend to be caught.” 

“Interesting,” comments Anna, furrowing her eyebrows. She finishes off the remainder of her milk. 

“Just like you don’t intend to be caught. We’re thick as thieves, you and me,” says Collin.

“Literally,” says Anna flatly. “Where should I pass the antiques on?” 

“Ever heard of the Grind?”

“No,” admits Anna.

“A nightclub in the Bronx. It’s the perfect meeting place for the sketchier people in this decrepit replica of Londontown,” says Collin. “No one would notice you or your package. Mind you, though, I can’t meet you there for it this week in the Grind. You’ll have to drop it by with me here.”

“Something wrong with the Grind?” asks Anna.

“Yes. Police are lurking about, and no one likes the fuzz, so business in the Grind is lagging as a result,” sighs Collin. 

“Alright then. For the first job, how much do you reckon a fourth will pay me?” asks Anna.

“Fifty pounds.” 

“So it’s worth two-hundred pounds?” asks Anna.

“Normally it’d go for one-thousand plus, but I’m simply being nice.” Anna wants to reply with, “Nice isn’t in your nature, though—not really,” but she keeps her mouth shut for the sake of the money. “It’s set then, right?” says Collin, clearing his throat. Anna smiles softly in response. Of course it is.

\---

Jordan’s reading the Specter Watch blog, it’s ten o’clock a.m., and it’s a lovely day outside. But the blog is more interesting anyway.

Specter Watch  
Major Thomas Ellis Dead, No Evidence Found at Crime Scene

Just last night, it is believed by local authorities that the Frowning Specter killed one Major Thomas Ellis of the British Army, age 49. There is no visible motive, nor were any fingerprints or any other evidence left in the killer’s wake. The Major was found in his armchair by his son, Lucas Ellis, age 13, with his throat having been slit and his intestines tied around his lung in his lap. His iPad is currently being examined for any possible leads, but nothing conclusive has appeared yet. “It has the Specter written all over it, from the removed organs to the body left in its dying position, and let’s not forget the signature lack of any DNA,” says Investigator Axel D’Aubigne. “There were twenty bodies found in the entrance alone. The fact that Mr. Ellis was not disturbed by them, that he was in his armchair even as he was killed, is truly remarkable. That the Specter could kill twenty people without making a sound is troubling, hinting at a background in either medicine, military, or law enforcement.” No other comments were made by officials, and the investigation is still ongoing. 

“More than one guy was on the operation with you,” Jordan says as Michael enters the room, toweling off his hair and why the fuck did Michael feel the need to strut about shirtless? 

“An operation like that couldn’t be done any other way,” Michael drawls. 

“You would’ve been heard otherwise,” says Jordan. 

“So is D’Aubigne any closer?” asks Michael, sitting on the couch.

“Yeah. He’s guessing you’ve either got a background in medicine, military, or law enforcement,” Jordan reads off the blog. “No DNA found.”

“I didn’t hit any of their indicators,” says Michael.

“Didn’t leave any behind, did you?” smirks Jordan. Michael’s face softens. 

“Never do.” 

“So…my plan requires Collin Ginsberg, the MacAllister twins, and a thief,” says Jordan.

“That’s all?” Michael says.

“Preferably a well-connected thief. The smaller the team, the better,” says Jordan.

“Perhaps it’s better not to outright declare war,” says Michael, “and rather to wage it on the inside of the ranks.”

“We need at least one person on the outside,” Jordan says. “Otherwise it’ll look suspicious if certain members start associating more often than usual. Of the two of us, I’m better-connected. If I dropped off, it’d be normal for people to come talk to me. We live in the same apartment, so no change there. We can say that my reason is that I’m tired of seeing the inside of a jail cell, that I can’t deal with the product-”

“Drugs. Say it with me, Jordan, drugs,” says Michael. Jordan laughs. 

“Sorry, just so used to talkin’ about it like it’s a business deal,” says Jordan. Michael gives Jordan a look, and Jordan, fluent in Michaelese, translates it to: “Your life is a business deal.” Jordan grins into his hand. 

The doorbell rings and Jordan wipes the grit from his eyes with the back of his hand before he answers the door. A girl with golden-brown hair wrestling against its braid, a freckle-dusted face, the brightest green eyes he’s ever seen, baggy clothes, torn shoes, and a huge bag on her back stands in his doorway. She holds up the ad for a third flatmate with a feeble attempt at a smile, lips quivering. 

“Can you pay it?” Jordan asks her patiently. She unclenches one fist and extends a wallet to him. Jordan counts out the money, eyes flicking up to confirm that she’s still standing there. Jordan’s first impression of the girl is that she’s homeless, skittish, scared, and far too young to be looking into buying a room in an apartment with two men already living there on her own. “How old are you?” Jordan asks her as he gets to one-thousand and six-hundred pounds in his counting. 

“Eighteen,” she croaks in what’s definitely a rural accent. Jordan gives her a smile of his own. 

“Not as young as I thought,” Jordan says. She tries to grin but it comes out as sharp fragments of what could’ve been amusement at Jordan’s joke. She’s broken. But even shards of glass have sharp edges. She’s survived long enough to weather malnutrition. That alone says a lot. Jordan can guess where she got the money, too. There’s prostitution or there’s thieving, and, no offense, but she doesn’t look like the type who’d wait on corners. No, this one’s a thief. “Looks to be all there. Here’s five-hundred back, and welcome to the apartment.” Her face is trying harder at the act of smiling and it’s one of the saddest things Jordan’s ever seen, how her lips have a snarling curl or have a wretched misery, but can’t seem to find a purchase on relief or happiness. Her eyes get watery and she preemptively wipes at them as if it’ll stop the tears.

Jordan can’t help it. He pulls the girl into him, rubbing her back, whispering that everything’s going to be alright now, and she’s stiff in his arms and it takes three minutes before her rigid posture to slump into him and for the sobs to finally escape her. Jordan doesn’t know what happened to her, but one day he hopes she’ll tell him. 

\---

“What’s her name?” asks Michael, gesturing at the sleeping girl curled into Jordan’s side on the couch. 

“Anna Scott. I checked the wallet,” murmurs Jordan. 

“Scott? As in Wesley?” 

“I hope not,” says Jordan, smiling tightly. 

“Young and homeless,” Michael comments.

“It grows more common every year,” says Jordan. “You’d think we’d be recovering by now after the change in management.”

“Britain owns us, but they aren’t outright saying so,” Michael agrees. “The moment that they do should be cause for worry.” Jordan nods, running a hand through Anna’s tangle of curls. 

“I wonder where she came from,” says Jordan.

“Thievery,” says Michael.

“I know,” says Jordan. 

“Drugs, death, and now defraudment have all found a comfortable home here,” says Michael. 

“I think we have a thief,” says Jordan. “We’ll have to bring it up tomorrow at breakfast. And Michael?” Michael gives Jordan the attention he so desires. “Do try not to frighten her.” 

Michael stands from the couch, heading into his bedroom. He proceeds to allow routine to comfort him: Go to the bathroom, brush his teeth, rinse his face, put on pajama pants, pull the covers over his lower body, prop up his pillow, and grab his book from the night table. Michael reads for an hour before he sets his alarm, returns his book to the night table, and turns out the light. 

He lays in bed, staring up at the ceiling, his stomach recalling how to dive-roll from his training. This, aside from the time directly after a kill, is Michael’s most vulnerable time. Sleep. He is prey to external predators, he is prey to his own mind and body. This is the one time of day that his heartbeat accelerates past its normal average, when sweat breaches his flesh, when his pupils dilate and his hair stands on end and his fingers quiver. It is fear. 

Michael is perfectly aware that he is a molotov cocktail of PTSD, psychological programming gone horribly wrong, insomnia, and, of course, a healthy dosage of paranoia. He is “OCD” about routine, in Jordan’s words. He is still in the denial stage of grieving because he is fully capable of functioning independent of clinical psychology. 

It was the combination of psychologists, biochemical engineers, the military, and public funding courtesy of the Armed Services Congressional Committee at the behest of the British Parliament. Michael knows this final tidbit because to kill all those involved in the program, he first had to secure a highly classified list detailing who exactly knew of the program and who directed funds to it. Michael was very thorough in exacting his justice when he targeted each name. They were prey dressed as predators, convinced of their own invincibility behind electric fences and all the latest security measures defending their fortresses. They should not have taught Michael how to overcome such petty obstacles.

Michael turns onto his side, staring at the numbers on his digital clock illuminating his room with an eery blue. Michael doesn’t want to sleep tonight. Not with the new girl in their home. She could steal from them, kill Jordan, kill him. Michael opens his door, goes to his computer, and reads the latest email from Malik, typing out a reply. Then he browses the web, reading the news, fetching independent poetry and short stories from writing sites, listening to pianists entertain halls of aficionados, digging for Congressional activity in relation to Parliament, perusing sites outfitted for the use of veterans, scrolling through a gun catalogue, and lingering upon a website made for those struggling with psychological disorders as a result of trauma. 

By the time Michael glances back at the clock, it’s 5:32 am and by now he’s usually beginning his morning routine. Michael clothes himself in exercise wear, fixes himself a cup of coffee and a rudimentary but healthy breakfast consisting of only fruit, brushes his teeth, tugs his sneakers on, and leaves the apartment. 

\---

The girl emerges from the room, rubbing at her eyes and yawning. It’s the cutest thing Jordan’s seen since Haley. Jordan glances over at Michael to see if he’s also remembering. If he is, it’s not visible on his face. 

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “I never introduced myself to either of you.” Her gaze shifts to the floor. “I’m Anna Scott.” Jordan purses his lips. She looks like she’s trying not to panic. 

“I’m Jordan Langley. Please, sit,” Jordan says say, beckoning her over. She nods slowly, sitting as far as she possibly can from Jordan at the table. 

“I-I’m sorry, I just get nervous around people I don’t know,” she blurts out and then her face is all red. 

“It’s okay,” Jordan says, adapting the same approach that he uses when he’s bringing Michael down from his nightly panics. “You’re safe here.” Anna’s eyes shift to Michael and Jordan freezes. Does she know? She can’t know. Not this early. 

“Am I?” she asks, her question directed more at Michael than Jordan. His eyes narrow instead of offering reassurance. Jordan glares at Michael. Michael scowls at Jordan. Well, it’s a scowl compared to his standard look of boredom. 

“Yes,” Michael says after a long moment. Anna doesn’t look so certain. 

“Where’d you come from?” Jordan asks, trying to lighten the mood. 

“I’m from this city,” she says. 

“Which borough?” Jordan inquires.

“Brooklyn,” she answers.

“I’ve never seen you around here before,” Jordan says. “Judging from your bag, I’d say you were homeless before, right?” 

“No,” she snorts. 

“In a borough as poor as this one with as many people dying every day as they do, everybody has to know everybody,” Jordan presses her. “I have never heard of an Anna Scott before, nor have I ever seen you before.”

“There’re lots of people here in Brooklyn,” she insists. 

“Which street did you live on?” I ask. Anna is floundering, eyes searching for some answer. 

“Hicks,” she says. 

“You need to start telling me the truth. If we’re gonna be flatmates, and you’re a minor, we need to know this shit,” Jordan says. 

“Alright, alright! I’m from New Jersey,” she surrenders.

“Which town?” Jordan asks.

“Red Bank  
“Which street?” Anna leans back in her chair. “Which street?” 

“She’s a compulsive liar,” Michael observes. Anna almost snarls at him.   
“Where are you from?” Jordan asks her again. 

“Macedon, New York,” she says after a moment’s pause. 

“Which street?” 

“Paddy Lane,” she responds. 

“Macedon,” Michael says. “Upstate.” 

“Nearly seven hours with traffic,” she says. 

“Truth,” Michael says to Jordan. 

“Why come here?” Jordan asks. “And please don’t make me ask three times.” 

“I have family here. I found my uncle, but he wouldn’t let me stay with him.”

“Why would you need to stay with him?” Jordan asks.

“She’s a runaway,” Michael answers before she can, eyeing her. “Her face was in the police reports.” Anna looks away. 

“Why run?” Jordan inquires. 

“My stepfather hits me,” she whispers, hugging her knees to her chest. 

“I know,” Jordan says. She stares at Jordan, brows furrowed. “Dad hit me when I was a kid. I’d recognize that fear of being touched anywhere. Though it tends not to be so pronounced after three weeks’ time. You got hit here in the city, too, didn’t you?” Her lack of response says it all. “I’m sorry.” 

“I’ll be alright,” she says. “I always am.” The way she says it, being hit isn’t the only thing she’s endured. Jordan looks over at Michael. That twitch in his face speaks volumes. He despises the new addition to the household. Michael doesn’t like much change anyway, these days. She’s a disruption in his routine. He’s killed for less. 

\---

Anna’s room is naked and vulnerable, like bones without flesh attached. The walls are white, there are fluorescent lights, and there is a tall window that looms over her, amber streetlights flooding onto the wooden floor, drowning her in the inevitability of her solitude, because being alone is paramount to her survival but that doesn’t mean that it feels good. It’s just easier. 

Her backpack is settled in the corner, her small collection of knick knacks piled in the corner, ready to leave the moment that Michael gets any ideas about alerting the police to her presence. She can run so fuckin’ fast that the wind can’t catch up with her, that the sun and sky blur before her eyes, that she can tear holes into the air before her with her hands in claws, that she can hear the world move silently, with all the weight of a thousand suns, and she can sense infinity for just a split second and it hurts but everything hurts and nothing’s free, even when she’s running she’s bound to something bigger than her, something smarter than her, something crueler than her. 

Anna looks down at the floor. Jordan seems nice enough. Michael seems tough on the outside…and on the inside. 

That’s when a blood-curdling scream is issued from the room across from hers, and it shatters the wall, shatters it so hard that it collapses inward atop of Anna and this is not what she asked for, not what she needs, the scream’s obliterated the wall. It’s raw, unbridled fear that shrieks through the apartment’s silence, fear that shakes Anna so hard that she can feel the threads tying her bones to flesh quaking. 

There is the clamor of someone thundering down the hall, and Anna can see that it’s Jordan going into Michael’s room, and Michael is wide-eyed and panting, mouth opening and closing, and the door closes behind Jordan. Anna can hear Jordan shushing Michael, can hear him telling Michael that everything’ll be alright, that he’s in New York City, it’s three in the morning, no one’s threatening their safety. 

Anna feels as if she’s heard something she’s not supposed to, seen something private and intimate. And she feels wrong, because she of all people knows that there are walls and it’s a gesture of respect not to climb where one isn’t wanted. 

She wonders what the deal is between her two new flatmates. She wonders if Michael is trustworthy or if Jordan is really the booming, generous personality that allowed her entry. She wonders why, when she was pretending to be asleep, Jordan said he needed a thief, how he made the connection between her and Wesley so quickly, how he even knew who Wesley was, why Michael said that death and drugs also lived with her defraudment. Who was the drug dealer and who was the death dealer between Michael and Jordan? 

Michael is intimidating enough to be either, but Jordan can’t be anything but a drug dealer. He has the panache, the verbal finesse, and the ability to project a trustworthy feeling. Jordan is the sort of man who is accustomed to being trustworthy, the sort who doesn’t betray trust but rather uses it to gain something from a stranger: Money. 

Jordan is a risk, but Anna knows it’s unlikely he’d present her to the authorities. Michael, on the other hand…he has dainty piano-playing fingers like Evelyn’s, but his hands tell another story. Large, calloused, thick wrists, strong arms. The bulky clothes he wears clearly mean to disguise the body of a Greek god. Michael is a killer if ever she’s seen one. It’s no surprise that he’d have nightmares as a result. Anna breathes a sigh. 

\---

Michael watches as Jordan approaches the table, a grease-stained bag in hand that can only contain breakfast.

“I know how much you dislike carbs, so I got you a chicken salad,” Jordan announces. Michael nods his approval, and Jordan begins to set the table. Jordan lowers the volume of his voice. “Where’s Anna?” 

“Not in her room,” says Michael.   
“Fuck!” hisses Jordan. “It’s not safe out there at night, what if-” Michael hears movement outside the door, and in walks Anna, dressed completely in black, goggles hanging from her neck. “Anna. Morning,” says Jordan cheerily. 

“Morning,” she greets them, eyes lingering on Michael. She can recognize a predator, then. She’s clever prey. 

“Where were you?” asks Jordan, offering her a seat at the table. “I got breakfast.”

“A job,” Anna says slowly. 

“Care to specify without lying?” says Michael. Anna freezes before she begins to flounder. 

“Uh…I…I-”

“You’re a thief-” begins Jordan.

“I know you know, I just don’t like talking about me,” Anna says quickly. 

“Then what do you like talking about?” inquires Jordan. Anna sits, eyes wide, flicking from Jordan to Michael and back again, finding more sympathetic ground with Jordan. Good-cop, bad-cop. 

“News. TV. Books. Politics. Social justice.”

“In other words, you’re as impersonal as impersonal gets,” says Jordan. “So, let’s discuss your thieving job.” 

“I don’t even know anything about either of you aside from your own careers,” Anna divulges. “I know that you’re more dangerous than me. I’m guessing that you’re the drug dealer and he’s the killer.”

“Smart. So you were awake,” realizes Jordan.

“She would have been sophomoric not to,” says Michael. By using such a word as “sophomoric,” Michael has effectively demonstrated that he is Anna’s superior in language, and Jordan’s, for that matter. It is programming language. By this demonstration, he has flummoxed both participants in this conversation and reversed the power structure. Michael plans to fully make use of this new change. “Her breathing was irregular. It was a test. You pass.”

Anna furrows her brows.

“Why test me?” she asks. 

“Why don’t you tell us what you do for a living?” suggests Michael, leaning forward. Anna stiffens in her seat. 

“I…I…” Anna breathes deeply. “I’m a thief. I work for Collin Ginsberg. I’ve done three jobs for him now, all antique thefts.” Jordan’s eyes widen.

“Collin Ginsberg? Like the Collin Ginsberg? Greenwich Village?” says Jordan.

“Yeah…” says Anna slowly. “Why’s he so special?” 

“It has to be her,” Jordan says to Michael. “We couldn’t have asked for anyone better. Hey, kid, what’re you planning in the future? What’re you good at, other than stealing?”

“Um…I’ve kinda been thinking about military intelligence-” Michael cannot restrain the abrupt recline into his chair, nor can he repress the narrowing of his eyes. 

“So that’s how it happened,” Anna breathes. Michael’s been outmaneuvered by a little girl, and he sees what Jordan can’t. He sees why she isn’t perfect—she’s just as keen as Jordan is, if not more. She has defense mechanisms upon defense mechanisms to avoid personal input, to avoid allowing anyone to see her cards while she tests the waters for those of others. She is dangerous, but just small enough, just childlike enough, to be passed off as a vulnerable mouse. “Where were you employed in the military?” Anna inquires. “Did you fight in India?” Michael stands from the table, putting his salad aside. “Michael-” She looks like he kicked her. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I…I shouldn’t have said anything.” Michael remembers another time when another little girl said the same, and he knows that Jordan is recalling the memory as well by the teary eyes he now displays. Michael leaves the room. 

\---

“I still don’t know about what happened to him,” Jordan tells Anna. “I know you heard, last night.” Anna nods.

“It was terrifying,” whispers Anna. 

“Back to what we were previously discussing.” Jordan puts a hand on hers. “I understand if it would overwhelm you, or if you’d think me crazy. There’s a reason why the rent’s so cheap, and why we chose now to advertise for a third flatmate. We need a third manager, so to speak, and you’re a bit younger than we’d hoped for, a bit less physically powerful than we need, but you’ve got brains.”

“I prefer straightforwardness in transactions like these,” Anna says flatly. 

“Well, I plan to wage a war with the mob and the police,” says Jordan, waiting for her reaction. 

“Someone’s a little ambitious,” says Anna. Jordan laughs. “Vengeance?”

“Of course,” says Jordan. 

“Let me guess, idealist with a hell of a lot of planning to do.”

“I need intel, and Collin Ginsberg just happens to be everyone’s favorite psychiatrist. He has a degree in clinical psychology, and all the people who’re worth anything in this city deal with him and whisper sweet little nothings into his ear. He’s got the baddest of the bad on his payroll, and he runs a very good network. Everybody loves the fellow. So you can imagine why I was so surprised when I learned that Collin Ginsberg needs a thief when he has the entire city willing to eat out of his palm,” says Jordan.  
“Did he say anything that might’ve given you away?”

“I think he knows, more or less, who I’m related to,” Anna tells him. 

“And who are you related to?” asks Jordan.

“You already know,” chuckles Anna.

“No,” hisses Jordan. Anna smiles. “No, not Wesley—he’s your uncle?” He sputters. “Then what the hell’re you doing here in this dump?”

“Something about keeping me from becoming political leverage,” says Anna. “I already know that I’m under Collin’s thumb because of Wesley. Collin wants something from him, I just don’t know what yet.”

“Wesley isn’t the most forthcoming about his plotting, and he runs quite a few attacks on police patrol cars, interrupting mob deals on occasion. It’s the mob that wants him, not Collin, but to stay in business Collin needed something. Did anything strange happen before you ended up on Collin’s doorstep?”

“You mean to ask if I was herded there?” Anna says. “I may have been. If Collin’s as good as you say he is, then he’d have put guys out on the lookout for me, and that shopkeeper I’d stolen from would’ve called him. He started chasing me in a very specific direction, now that I consider it, and leaving his stall is suicidal at best, as it leaves it open to more thefts. Collin must’ve paid him very well indeed.” 

“You’re a smart little thing, aren’t you?” says Jordan. Anna shrugs.   
“So, how many guys do you reckon Collin had in Wesley’s ranks?”

“More than the holes in a chunk of Swiss cheese,” quips Anna. “They must’ve heard the fight between us, and Collin must’ve caught wind.”

“Makes sense,” says Jordan. “Well then, if the mob wants Wesley and Collin wants to stay where he is and the police want Wesley, and Wesley wants…what does Wesley want?”

“He wants government reform. Transparency, less police interference, the return of individual rights, talks on poverty and the redistribution of wealth. In essence, he wants human interests to be represented in our inhuman government,” says Anna.

“Humanity seems like such a crutch these days,” remarks Jordan. “What with the creation of injections.”

“Gods among men. And of course us poor folk can’t afford them,” says Anna. “Government property and all.”

“Doesn’t stop CEOs,” says Jordan.

“What does?” laughs Anna humorlessly. 

“So, how do you feel about this war?” asks Jordan.

“It’s counter-intuitive to my goal of outliving fifty-five, but I’m in.”

“That was easy,” mutters Jordan. “Too easy.”

“So, what other stock do we have?” asks Anna.

“Was that a John Le Carré reference I just heard?” responds Jordan.

“Yeah. Love the guy,” says Anna.

“My friend is a total geek for espionage thrillers,” Jordan says.

“And you?” prompts Anna.

“Romance, historical fiction, psychological thrillers, encyclopedias…”

“You lost me at encyclopedias,” jokes Anna. “How about Michael?”

“He worships Edgar Allan Poe,” scoffs Jordan. “Quotes ‘im and everything.” 

“A penchant for the macabre,” Michael says, returning to the table. 

“You feeling less pissy?” asks Jordan. 

“So, what’s my job going to be?” asks Anna. 

“Make friends with Wesley’s people. I don’t care what you have to do, just as long as you keep us updated. In four days, I want to know what he’s up to, what he wants, who he deals with. I also want to know if you notice anything about Collin when you mention him, or if Collin starts to act strangely. Michael, you’re to remain normal, standard operations. I’ll poke around and see how willing the labs would be to privatize and if I can get any defections to work. I’ll also check into the MacAllister brothers and my good gang friends.”

“Then what?” asks Anna.

“Next Saturday, I’m going to throw a tantrum at the mob, saying I can’t do my job under all the pressure anymore. I’ll resign, and then we start official operations. First we need Collin, and if we can snag Wesley, that’d be a bonus,” says Jordan. “From there, we’ll sabotage mob deals, threaten policemen, kill higher-ups every now and then, and stay alive for as long as possible. If we outlast them, then we’ll be heroes and others will rise.” 

Michael and Anna share a look, and Jordan is unsettled by the fact that he cannot decipher it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the 3A trio begin weaving their web of contacts, intelligence, and Plan B's, they learn that the web around them is far more intricate than they had imagined. They might not be alone in this game against the mob after all.

“Get busy living, or get busy dying.”  
-Stephen King

 

 

Chapter 3

 

 

“I got a new stash,” Anna announces to the room, tossing a thumb drive at Jordan. Jordan catches the drive. 

“Yo, MacAllister! New stash!” Jordan hollers, hurling the thumb drive to the couch. The thumb drive hits Joe’s glasses before he manages to catch it. 

“Who’s it from?” asks Joe, adjusting his glasses.

“Employee of Martha Gates. He handles minor accounts,” Anna says with all the enthusiasm of a hungover high school student.

“I’ll run it,” sighs Joe, opening his third computer and inserting the thumb drive. 

“Thanks, Joe. This means a lot,” Jordan says. “I know you’re busy enough with jobs from the cooperative.” Joe gives Jordan an assessing once-over.

“You’re a friend, Jordan. We stick together,” Joe finally says.  
“You didn’t have to think too long on that one, did ya?” laughs Jordan. Joe smiles in response. Michael enters the room, paperwork in hand.

“I suppose I do owe you, after you took that hit-” begins Joe. Jordan widens his eyes at Joe. Joe’s eyes slink over to Michael, and then to Jordan. Joe’s mouth curls into a smile. “What, is the past now taboo?” 

“We don’t talk about that shit,” hisses Jordan, and he knows that Joe can see the desperation slamming Jordan hard like his father’s fists during that bad winter in eighth grade. 

“But Jordan,” says Joe, “we come from shit.” Michael leaves the room. Jordan rubs his face with both his hands, heaving a sigh. 

“I’m sorry,” murmurs Jordan. “You took time-”

“My time is my concern. Ike’s on the prowl, and he likes nothing more than to be thwarting authority. This job’s tailored to the tosser, and on the up side, I don’t have to deal with the coppers when he speeds down the thruway munching on a burger while blasting Metallica,” Joe assures Jordan. 

“How many times has he done that now?” asks Jordan.

“Five, by my counting,” drawls Joe. “This is just rudimentary data processing, Jordan.” Jordan manages a smile, nodding. “What would concern me is if you were slacking off.” Jordan laughs. “That aside, you cannot continue to shield him from your past on the basis that he shields you from his. I’m not saying you owe him more of your life. I’m saying that he deserves to know what kind of hell he put you through.” 

Jordan looks away from Joe at this. 

“I can’t-”

“He’ll keep unintentionally hurting you if you don’t,” Joe says quietly. Jordan bites his lip. “Get me a beer,” sighs Joe. 

“Hey, Anna! Would you mind fetchin’ our good friend Joe a beer?” says Jordan. 

“Sure,” says Anna with a shrug. She hands Jordan the beer, and Jordan passes it to Joe. 

“So, what is it that you’re looking for?” inquires Joe. Jordan narrows his eyes at Joe. “Oh, so it’s that way.” 

“Listen here, Joe. I don’t want you getting any deeper into this than you have to be,” Jordan mutters.

“Thing is, if they catch me, I’m more valuable alive if I can feed ‘em something,” Joe argues. “Even if it’s bullocks.” 

“Let’s avoid getting you caught then, shall we?” says Jordan. 

“So you don’t care if my ass is on the line.”

“I do care. If you get caught, then tell ‘em it was all me, alone. I manipulated some clueless buggers into doin’ the dirty work because I got off on the power,” Jordan says. “Then I want you to tell ‘em I was fuckin’ around with the product and going a bit daft, if you know what I mean.”

“Jordan,” Joe says, strangled, “no, not that.”

“Isn’t like they won’t believe it,” chuckles Jordan.

“Jordan, that was one time, and they know you’d never do it again. Please don’t use that,” says Joe. 

“Let’s just say I spiraled again,” sighs Jordan. “Y’know it’s a pattern with me.”

“Yeah, you try for normal, denying yourself everything you want, and then you end up getting restless, so you get behind some ludicrous cause and lose your wits,” says Joe. “At least last time you didn’t OD.” 

“True,” says Jordan. “So, how’re things with that Staten Island bonita?”   
“She broke up with me last week,” Joe informs him. “Somethin’ about my lack of social skills.”

“I’m sorry, mate. If it makes you feel any better, I think you got loads. You’re a sweet guy, but you just can’t close the deal, y’know?”

“At the rate I’m goin’ I may as well marry Ike,” scoffs Joe. 

“Twincest is so last year,” jokes Jordan. 

“Too bad,” sighs Joe. 

“I’m still on the market,” Jordan says with a grin. 

“Speakin’ o’ which, how’re things coming along with that bloke at the pub you keep rantin’ about?” asks Joe. 

“I haven’t actually talked to ‘im yet,” admits Jordan. “Still just kinda lurkin’. I’m tryin’ not to get involved, y’know? The blues songs they play there are as sweet as honey on a fine Louisiana day, and I’d rather not muck it up by having an awkward former paramour there.”

“Ah, Louisiana. That deal went to hell in a heartbeat,” laughs Joe. “But keep talkin’. I need someone to entertain me while this goes through.” 

“Well, he’s military, for one,” says Jordan. “He’s friends with the bartender. Just talks about the Anglo-Indian War. Nothin’ specific, really, just mentions places and people and tries to suffocate himself in liquor. Serious alcoholic with major PTSD.” 

“Ouch,” winces Joe. Jordan’s cell phone rings, and he answers it.

“What’s goin’ on, Tyrone?” 

“Found some shit on Wesley. Thought you might be interested,” Tyrone says.

“Well then, c’mon up,” says Jordan. Tyrone hangs up. 

“Which gangs shall we meet with first?” inquires Michael, a notebook in hand. 

“You’re schedulin’, aren’t you?” asks Jordan, smiling. Michael does not respond, which is as good as a yes from him. “Well, the Vipers should definitely be first. Then we’ll see the Red Throats, the Gravediggers, and the Hyenas. Definitely not the Dead Rabbits, though.”

“Why omit the Dead Rabbits?” Joe says.

“They’re fuckin’ skinheads, that’s why,” says Jordan. “White pride rapers and psychopaths, they are.” 

“Still, they’re a big bunch,” says Joe. 

“I agree with Jordan,” Michael says, seating himself across from them. Joe shrinks back into the couch. “They’re a liability and they would draw bad press.” 

“Good point,” says Jordan. Anna emerges, clothed in baggy, brand new pajamas that Jordan bought her. She’s adorable. “Any news from Collin?”

“No,” Anna says through a yawn. Jordan’s frown deepens. “But I can tell you something about Wesley.” She plops herself down on the floor, far from Michael as she can get, hugging her knees. “There’s a guy…at the top of the mob…chief supplier or something like that. He told the mob not to kill Wesley, or he’d start withholding. Apparently this guy is the one with the drug cartel contracts, the one who got them to really focus their efforts abroad.” 

“Does the mob know who the supplier is?” Joe asks.

“Why do you think they’re chasing Wesley?” replies Michael.

“They don’t,” whispers Jordan. “So this supplier is somehow connected to Wesley…and they’re trying to pin this supplier down so they can improve the contracts to favor them, most likely.”

“Most likely,” concurs Anna. “Even Collin doesn’t seem to know much about it.”

“Did you outright ask him?” Joe says sharply.

“No, I put on my cute face and asked where drugs come from,” Anna tells them. Jordan barks a laugh.

“So he told you, just like that?” hisses Joe.

“He thinks I’m still out on the streets and that I’m gonna die on my own anyway. That’s why I put so much effort into mucking myself up before work,” Anna says, eyes sliding over to Jordan. 

“I just don’t want you to get sick,” Jordan defends himself. Anna rolls her eyes. “Ungrateful!” Anna smiles softly at him. 

“The thing that worries me is that he’ll trace me back to here,” Anna says. “I pay everything in cash, so that’s still better, but one of these days someone’s gonna tail me after I’ve stayed alive past my welcome.”

“That’ll be the time when we start killing people or when we get a new residence,” Jordan says. 

“Good to know there’s a plan,” says Joe, eyebrows furrowed. 

“You can’t definitely plan anything in a climate as unstable as this one. What you gotta do is look at your current situation and try to navigate from there with as few negative side effects as possible,” Jordan counters. 

“All we can do is lash out at the people who attack us,” says Michael. 

“And stay alive as long as we can,” adds Anna. Michael nods his approval. Anna hides her smile between her knees, and another bout of affection warms Jordan’s heart. 

“Well, lucky for you, the mob hasn’t caught a whiff of your nefarious scheme just yet,” grumbles Joe. 

There’s a knock at the door, and Jordan goes to answer it.

“Tyrone!” he exclaims. Tyrone shoves past Jordan into the room. 

“Listen, we don’t have much time,” Tyrone growls, locking the door behind him. He and Jordan speed into the living room. Tyrone sits by Joe.  
“The jig’s up, mates. The mob caught your scent. Here’s what they do know: You’re leavin’, Jordan. I spread rumors, like you asked. They came up to me—Frank and some other bloke, and they start askin’ me why you’re leavin’, if the pay’s not good enough. They’re cuttin’ you off from the accounts, Jordan.”

“Well, that’s not too bad. Did you say I’m spiraling again?” Jordan replies.

“Yeah, yeah. But here’s the gold on Wesley—just two weeks back, he got contacted by the Headless Horseman, directly, by courier. No one’s sayin’ what he got, but-”

“Hold up, who’s the Headless Horseman?” Jordan interrupts him.

“Headless Horseman, chief drug supplier, the guy who sells the best shit and has a fifty-fifty deal with the cartel-”

“How the fuck he’d get away with that? One man versus an entire cartel-” begins Jordan.

“No idea, but to pull one over on ‘em like that you’ve gotta be scary as shit,” Tyrone says. “Anyway, so for those of you who aren’t aware, the Horseman’s a very indirect guy. Couriers, back alley computer messages, you name it. No one’s ever seen the guy. We don’t even know where he’s from, if it’s a he, or what the person’s handwriting looks like. For Wesley the Temper Tantrum Scott to get anything from the guy’s sketchy at best and terrifying at worst. The mob thinks the Horseman’s plotting against them, and I don’t blame ‘em. The question we must now pose is why use a pigheaded, stubborn prat like Wesley to make a move?” 

“Shit,” says Jordan. “Looks like we’re not the only ones challenging the mob.”

“How does the saying go? The enemy of my enemy is my friend?” says Anna.

“I don’t like it,” mutters Michael, standing.

“What’s your input on this?” Jordan asks.

“We may have gone in over our heads,” Joe elaborates. “Is that what you’re also thinkin’, Mike?” 

“Why now?” Michael murmurs. 

“Anna, when’d you get into the city?” asks Jordan. Anna bites her lip, and Jordan raises his eyebrows. “Three weeks ago, about, right?” Anna nods. 

“June thirtieth,” Anna says. 

“And today’s July twenty-third, so we’ll say around three weeks,” says Jordan. “And when did Wesley get this message?”

“The mob started losing its shit on July second, if I’m not mistaken,” recalls Tyrone. “Mind if I light one up?”

“Please don’t,” whines Joe. 

“So two days after you get into the city, the Horseman contacts Wesley, who just happens to be your uncle,” Jordan reasons. “It’s a bit too close for comfort for my taste. Did you leave a note behind, something to hint at where you were headed?”

“I didn’t tell them where I was going. I just said that I was running away, and that I’d prove that I didn’t need them to survive,” Anna says. 

“Did you say anything that could’ve given your destination away?” asks Michael.

“Every now and then I’d talk to my friend Randy about moving here when I was old enough. My parents didn’t know I was friends with ‘im, but it was a small town, so afterwards they might’ve talked,” Anna hypothesizes.

“So we have a kid named Randy who tells the town, in all likelihood. Maybe the Horseman lives there, maybe he’s a relative. So when did Wesley turn you down for a living space?” says Jordan.

“July second,” Anna answers.

“Shit,” whispers Tyrone. 

“So the day Wesley refuses you a home also happens to be the day he gets a message from the Horseman,” says Jordan. “I think we may have stumbled into a game we can’t begin to understand.” 

“Well, you did figure it out relatively quickly,” says Joe. “Maybe you can keep doing it.”

“But that’s the thing—all we’re working with are maybes,” says Jordan.

“Your maybes are usually right,” Joe presses. “Remember Louisiana? That maybe saved our lives.”

“But I don’t have a definitive read on this Horseman character,” says Jordan.

“The mob’s probably closer than we are, having been searching years for him,” Anna mentions. “So Collin’s probably in on it, too.” 

“Find what you can,” Jordan pleads.

“I’ll do my best,” Anna says. “But for now, I am fluffy, and I am going off to bed.”

“Already? When I was your age-” starts Tyrone.

“She will not be doing what you did at that age,” Jordan interrupts him. 

“Come off it!” groans Tyrone. “Not like you didn’t enjoy it sometimes. How old is she, anyway?”

“Eighteen,” says Anna, returning to her seat. 

“Eighteen. Let’s see, you were off in the military,” Tyrone says to Michael, “Jordan was the most fun he’d ever been—with consequences, of course. I was a dope addict and a torpedo for the Wolverines-” Jordan interrupts him with a howl, and Tyrone grins, “-and Jordan was dealin’ for ‘em. We were out of school at sixteen. Now this bloke over here, Joe, he was all studious and shit. He gets outta high school with his diploma, and he’s already bein’ hounded by the mob with his dropout twin brother Ike. Now those two at your age were trackin’ fellas down and smitin’ ‘em like gods. Now he’s got a desk job. We were gods back then,” Tyrone sighs wistfully, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a cigarette. Jordan snatches the cigarette from Tyrone’s mouth, tossing it out the window into the hot and heavy air. 

“What’d I say about smoking in the flat?” Jordan scolds him.

“Right, right,” mutters Tyrone. 

“So, where do we go from here?” asks Anna. 

“What we have to to outlive ‘em, I guess,” says Jordan. “I say we let ‘em drive themselves crazy over this Horseman and spread rumors about his whereabouts, lead ‘em on a goose chase while we pillage their markets and we’ll let the coppers have it, too.” Jordan leans back in his seat. “I say that maybe, just maybe, we can win this.” Tyrone grins, Joe smiles, Anna looks utterly terrified, and Michael—well, Michael looks irritated by all the people in their quiet flat.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anna learns that in war, no one can be trusted--not even Jordan.

“The enemy is anybody who’s going to get you killed, no matter which side he is on.”  
-Joseph Heller, Catch 22

 

Chapter 4

 

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the guys in charge here, it’s that they’re ambitious and they’ll do anything for power. My goal is to outlive these tits, and the way to do it is easy. Obey the orders that’ll keep you alive, know all the things you’re not supposed to, be sneaky, don’t draw attention, and fight dirty. If they don’t care about what happens to me, then I can stand to reciprocate.

Her father’s handwriting glares at her, and Anna knows that Jordan’s scheme isn’t going to cut it. She can’t tell which orders are relevant according to Freddy Scott. Jordan obviously cares for her, if his behavior, his actions, and his words are any indication. Jordan wears his heart on his sleeve, and if he’s angry, he says it—and yet he can subtly manipulate conversations to go a certain way, read people well enough to predict and influence their behaviors. The question that’s been plaguing her for the past three nights is whether she can trust him with her life. If he cares for her, then he won’t purposely let her die, and if he doesn’t…well, she’s stupid.

Anna has an entire life ahead of her, and she won’t let Jordan steal it from her. Just because she’s helping him does not mean she will go down with him in flames. Anna’s survived this long, and she does not intend to die fighting a war that cannot be won. She knows Michael is also skeptical. She knows that Joe’s humoring Jordan. She knows that Tyrone’s scared out of his mind. But Jordan? He’s as cool as a cucumber, and he has no right to be when they’re all going to die because of his misplaced idealism.

Michael seats himself beside her. 

“Hey,” she murmurs. He nods in response, legs stretching across the floor. 

“Whose notebook is that?” he asks after a moment. 

“Mine-”

“Again.”

“How do you know I’m lying?” she snaps.

“It’s a personal question,” Michael answers her after a moment’s pause. “Your handwriting differs.” He motions to her father’s scrawling handwriting. 

“You were in the military, right?” Michael nods. “Did you…did you know my dad?”

“His name.”

“Freddy Scott.” Michael’s fingers twitch. 

“Familiar,” he murmurs. 

“So you knew-”

“Not long,” Michael cuts her off. “Just one mission.” 

“What was he like?” whispers Anna. Michael’s eyes narrow. “You don’t have to if it makes you-”

“Arrogant,” Michael interrupts her. “Paranoid. Aggressive. Self-centered.” 

“Thank you,” mumbles Anna. 

“Disappointed?”

“It’s better than nothing. This is his journal, by the way.” She offers the notebook to him, and he accepts it, thumbing through it. 

“Worn,” he observes.

“I read it a lot,” Anna explains. He nods. “D’you think we’ll live through this?” Michael raises his head, staring at the wall opposite them. 

“Unlikely.”

“Then why?” Anna says. Michael turns his head to look at her.

“Life felt too close to death,” Michael discloses to her. “I’d rather die.”

“I’d rather not,” Anna retorts.

“Beasts don’t take kindly to being bitten by one of their own,” Michael warns her.

“I don’t plan on backstabbing,” Anna tells him. “I just don’t want him to take this too far.”

“Few do,” Michael replies. 

“I saw the mask,” Anna tells him. “It is yours, isn’t it, Specter?” Michael stills. “I won’t tell anyone-” His hand is around her throat, eyes blazing, face empty. 

“No, you won’t,” he says quietly, “because if you do…” His hand tightens around her throat and her lungs burn, air, air, air. “…I will rip your throat out.” He releases her, and she pants for air. He rises from the couch and retreats into his room. Anna blinks twice, hands patting at her throat. 

Anna feels rather dimwitted. She is living on death row with two wardens who will lead her to the electric chair no matter which path she chooses. If she willingly helps Jordan, then the mob will register her as a threat. If she surrenders, then Michael will kill her for betraying them. Maybe the streets weren’t so bad after all. 

\---

It’s night when Anna wakes to the sound of the front door creaking open. She slowly uncovers herself, maneuvering until she’s crouching on the floor by her bed. She reaches underneath it for her chef’s knife, standing in increments. She creeps to her open door, dodging outside it, sticking to the wall. In the pitch-black living room only lit by the streetlights outside, she can see a man who is neither Michael nor Jordan in size. Anna stops. Has he heard her? 

Maybe she can get away yet, hide under the bed. He turns, and she stands, caught by the man who is more likely to kill her than leave her now that he has a witness. He launches himself at her. Anna sidesteps, screaming, hands raised as the knife clatters to the ground. The man lunges forward, pinning Anna to the wall, and she slams her fist into his throat. He stumbles back, and she picks up the knife, backing away slowly, panting like it was only seconds ago that Michael nearly throttled her. 

“Who are you?” she hisses. He grabs her wrist, turns the knife inward, and—the man is locked in a shadow’s hold, and the man cries out as he wrestles against his captor, the knife going to plunge into the shadow, but the shadow’s fast as he is strong, smashing the man into the wall. Anna can see the knife’s shape protruding from the intruder’s stomach, but the shadow doesn’t stop there. The man’s head bangs against the wall over and over and over again and Anna hears something crack. The shadow slumps over, abandoning the thrashing man on the ground. He’s convulsing on the floor, and Anna wonders who he is. She turns on the hall light with quaking fingers. Blood on the wall, the floor, her bare feet. The man’s dark brown eyes stare up at her before they roll back into his head. Anna’s feet pad against the wooden floor until she reaches Michael’s door. She finds him there, sprawled across the floor, fast asleep. His breathing is genuine. 

\---

 

“What the hell?” breathes Jordan the next morning. Anna was hoping that he would know the answer. 

“Jordan,” she addresses him, and it’s then that he processes her blood-spattered state. “Can Michael kill people while he’s asleep? And where were you last night?”

“Business. I suppose he could. It wouldn’t surprise me,” Jordan says after a moment, gaze fixed on the corpse, hand clawing at his face. “What the hell’re we gonna do about all the blood? And what about the body?”

“Pig farm?” suggests Anna.

“You saw Snatch, didn’t you?” chuckles Jordan. Anna shrugs. “Well, looks like we’ll need an expert. Luckily Ike can take care of shit like this. In the meantime, we should have a little chat about what happened last night and why there’re bruises on your neck and where this guy came from.”

“I checked him over,” Anna tells him, shivering at the memory. “Hitman.”

“Figured. I just didn’t think they’d move quite so fast,” sighs Jordan. 

“Michael and I hung out, and then I woke up and heard the front door opening. I got out a knife I’d acquired, and went to see what was up. A guy was there, and I panicked. He tried to strangle me, and then Michael saved me. I went to check on Michael and I found him on the floor asleep,” Anna tells him. 

“Well, looks like we’ll have to speed up the tempo,” chuckles Jordan, scratching the back of his neck. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I guess,” Anna replies.

“Good,” mutters Jordan. “Breakfast?”

“He reeks,” Anna whines.

“Don’t worry, we’ll clean it up,” Jordan laughs. Anna wonders how many corpses Jordan’s seen, that he can treat this one like a trivial matter. 

She’s learned her lesson, though. It’s best not to question the people who hold your life in their hands. It doesn’t matter that she likes Jordan. He’s an idealist who could get her killed. It doesn’t matter that Michael doesn’t trust her. He’s enabling Jordan and is considering killing her himself. It doesn’t matter that the mob now associates her with this madness, or that the police are chasing her, the runaway. All of them will lead her to her death, and so all of them must be treated as threats to her survival, as enemies who cannot be trusted.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jordan makes a gamble against the Headless Horseman, and the results aren't pretty.

“Love is whatever you can still betray. Betrayal can only happen if you love.”  
-John le Carré

 

 

 

 

“That’ll be one-fifty,” Jordan mutters. 

“Alright, mate,” chuckles Robert, handing over the cash. The exchange is made as white powder is traded for money. The deal is done. 

“See you,” Jordan says. Robert nods, walking away. Jordan turns on his heel, sighing. He veers around a corner and barely misses walking into a vendor’s cart. Jordan excuses himself, rubbing his temples. His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he answers it. “Talk to me.”

“The batch is done,” the man on the other end says. 

“Good to hear it,” laughs Jordan. “I just finished the deal with Robert. I’ll wire your cut to you.”

“Alright.”

“Stay safe, buddy,” says Jordan. The man on the other end hangs up. Jordan smiles, lower lip curling into his teeth, corners of his mouth tight. Does it count as a smile? He texts Michael.

the deal went thru

He pauses before sending it. The reply is almost instantaneous.

the coordinator’s done

Ah. So the man who sent the hitman into their home is now dead. Wonderful. Jordan replies, knowing that another text from Michael is on its way.

And the evidence

Michael’s reply, as ever, is as brief and as chilling as it needs to be:

None

Jordan next texts Anna:

Anything new?

Anna replies:

a new coordinator + an entire division dedicated to us - hit incoming - v. angry w/ u

Jordan sighs, pocketing his cell phone. He really doesn’t need this shit today. His fingers dart into his pocket, retrieving his cell phone. He texts Joe.

How’re the rumors about H.H. being taken?

Joe responds:

The paper trail’s working they’ve lost their shit u have 3-4 days before they catch on

Jordan groans before he texts another reply.

Thnx man

Send. Jordan shoves his phone into his pocket, resolving not to withdraw it again unless he is texted first. 

Cars whoosh past, splattering the sidewalk with that unique New York City mix of piss and rainwater from just two hours ago. Jordan’s eyes are flitting about, searching throngs of people for signs of hitmen, cops, or conveniently placed old friends. 

The city’s never treated a guy well, or a gal, or anyone, whichever gender the person goes by. The city trusts no one, accepts everyone, and kills like God without discrimination. This is our generation’s Sodom, Jordan thinks to himself. A city of proper sin. He recalls that Johnny Cash song, “God’s Gonna Cut Them Down”:

Go and tell that long-tongued liar  
Go and tell that midnight rider  
Tell the rambler, the gambler  
Back-biter  
Tell ‘em that God’s gonna cut ‘em down

This Headless Horseman may as well be God, for all they know about him (or her), for all the power H.H. wields. The entire city’s economy depends on the drug trade, and H.H. pulls all the strings, knows their inner workings, oversees all the transactions, and wants Anna. Jordan freezes upon this particular realization. Why Anna? Ginsberg? Wesley? Who is it that she’s connected to, that a person with such a profoundly goliathan arsenal would focus so sharply on a little, thieving girl, as adorable and lovable as she is? 

Jordan doesn’t know, and that’s the biggest danger of all. He knows nothing about the Headless Horseman except that he wants Anna. And it’s very, very likely that the Headless Horseman knows everything about him.   
He’s playing a game that he doesn’t quite understand yet, and he knows that he’ll either conquer all or die trying, bringing a whole host of friends with him. Michael was right. All they can do is survive and kill the people who try to kill them. They have Anna. They have the one viable connection to H.H., which furthers their own cause. They have what H.H. wants, and if she’s in danger, then H.H. will out him or herself, and bam! They have a leg up on the mob. They can make a trade. They can live. By living, they beat the mob. The city rises. Then they hone in on the police and go after them with all their attention fixed on destroying them. 

There’s an incoming hit according to Anna’s resources. What if Jordan kept his flatmates with him at all times…made sure Anna was in the line of fire? Would H.H. leap out from the shadows to scold him? Eighty-percent no. H.H. is a powerful guy, and he’d want to maintain that image—Jordan would be received by a runner, who’d refer him to another runner just slightly closer to H.H. but still too far to know anything of value. Just a convenient guy on the ever-expanding payroll. 

But he’d still have clues. It’s better than nothing. If they can draw out H.H., bargain for Anna’s safety, then they can take the city no problemo. 

It’s all he can do for now. So he texts Anna and Michael individually: 

early dinner?

Send. Anna replies first:

if it’s on u

Jordan smiles.

sure

Send. Michael responds two minutes later:

risky w/ a hit on the loose

Jordan bites his lip.

a friend said otherwise

Send. He looks away, breathing a deep sigh. 

\---

“Quite the nasty gambit,” Michael says quietly, watching Anna’s back. 

“I know,” sighs Jordan. Michael tries to envision a target on the girl’s back. 

“The Horseman could neglect to respond,” Michael points out. 

“I somehow doubt inaction on his part. He risked a lot by sending a guy out into the open.”

“There is the risk that she dies,” Michael says. Jordan looks away. “And then H.H. will kill us both.” Jordan frowns. “There is also the outcome in which you alienate her.” 

“I have my ways,” sighs Jordan, fingers drumming against his leg. Michael grabs Jordan’s upper arm, twisting him. 

“You need to think more carefully,” Michael says quietly. “Your life is not the only one at stake here.” Michael releases Jordan, trailing after Anna. She glances back at Jordan with an arched brow. Jordan smiles reassuringly at her. Anna arches a brow and turns away. Jordan’s smile fades, and he purses his lips. 

His eyes seek out suspicious activity in the swarm of oncoming people. He sees a brat across the street, eyes examining Jordan without a hint of bashfulness. The boy raises a cell phone to his ear. Jordan sighs. 

At least it’ll be over with quickly.

\---

Anna doesn’t know what she’s expecting when Jordan suggests a walk through Times Square (which is suicide. SERIOUSLY), but it isn’t this. 

“We’ve just gotta ask you a few questions,” a younger man says, sniffing, and she can see the bulge in the back of his pants. Gun, gun, gun—

“No,” she snaps, backing away, shaking her head, eyes rising to his, and they both know. He’s fumbling with his pants and Anna whirls around so fast she nearly topples, but she catches herself and she runs like hell, runs with the gunshot ringing in her ears the start signal of the old track meets but now it’s a death dirge and Jordan’s too slow, Michael’s leaping into their assailant, but Anna turns away, she runs faster, faster, faster, faster—breathe in, out, in, out—chug-a-chug-a-chug—rivers of sweat drench her back, she’s shoving through a sea of people, waves stronger and stronger resisting her movements, she’s going far deeper into the blue and she’s drowning. 

Anna’s dragged to the curb by a larger man and she bites his wrist and he tugs her closer with a sharp pull. Anna screams, and he shoots a bullet into the air causing the crowd to disperse. Her green eyes are wide and wild and the whole world slows down, sound dissipating. She moves hard and fast like a snake. 

She pulls her wrist from her captor’s grip, grabs his gun-hand’s wrist, pulls the trigger at the ground, seizes the gun, and points it at him as she backs away, body quaking. He stands, frozen, and a car knocks his feet from under him. He flies for a moment like Peter Pan, rolling over the car, and it doesn’t stop moving, he doesn’t stop moving. His body vaults over the car and thuds to the ground, a crack audible. Another car speeds over him, and Anna can see the exact second that he dies. Anna turns, pointing the gun at every which direction, ragged pants escaping her mouth. Everyone is watching her, eyes wide, hands in the air. 

“JORDAN!” she shrieks. “MICHAEL!” Movement.

Jordan and Michael break the barrier of people, heaving and breathless. Anna lowers her gun in increments.

“Is he dead?” Jordan asks. Anna nods. “Our guy is dead-” A gunshot interrupts, and the crowd shatters in every which direction. Jordan’s head is whipping about, searching for the new threat, and Anna’s gun is raised. Michael radiates a calm alertness. They’re back to back. 

Three men in suits are charging forth, machine guns raised. Anna blinks. Michael snatches the gun from her hands, knocks her to the ground, and fires three shots. Three bodies fall. Splat. Thump. Thud. Anna stares at the red sidewalk. Michael returns the gun to her hands. Anna’s mouth opens, closes, opens, closes. The gun in her hands…did that. She turns, eyes watering.

“Someone call the police!” screams a woman. Anna stands there, and she tries so desperately to make sense of this nightmare. The gun is pointed at the middle man, whose body is still thrashing on the pavement like a fish out of water, legs slapping the concrete. Anna retreats in small steps, shaking her head. 

Jordan leads her away from the scene with a hand clutching her elbow.

“Lower the gun,” he murmurs. Anna complies. 

“Who…” she trails off. 

“Hit,” he explains simply. 

“I didn’t hear anything about it, I didn’t even get a wisp of that intel, where did you get it from, Jordan, how do you know it’s a hit, who told you?” Anna rants, voice rising in her blurry-eyed, shallow-lunged, plangent, run-run-run hysteria. 

“I don’t know. I just know it was a hit,” he tells her, calm as a sailboat on a summer day. 

“You knew. Why Times Square if not for a hit, you were trying to…no, Jordan, you wouldn’t, would you…” Her eyes fixate on his face.

“You’re all we have,” he admits after a moment. Anna’s jaw slackens and a disbelieving chortle rattles her. 

“No,” Anna breathes. Jordan bites his lip and looks away. “Fuck, you didn’t—you did. You…did this…to me,” and she hates how her voice gets so cracked on the last phrase, hates how much it gives away. 

“I didn’t want to, Anna-”

“But you did,” Anna cries out. Jordan’s mouth closes. Michael doesn’t look back. He doesn’t say anything. 

\---

“Five bodies in total,” the policeman tells Axel.

“One was hit by the car, one was beaten and shot, and the other three were shot cleanly,” Axel recalls.

“Yes sir,” the policeman concurs.

“Where are our witnesses?” mutters Axel, sipping at his coffee.

“We have ‘em corralled over there, sir,” the policeman says. Axel sighs.

“Merci,” Axel replies, approaching the ambulance where a crowd of people has gathered. “Who among you witnessed the crime?” Axel shouts. “If you are not witnesses, I must ask you to leave.” A few teenagers scatter from the scene, and Axel sniffs. These inconsistencies in the weather have given him a cold. 

“You’re the detective?” a woman barks at him. She’s a pudgy, squat little mongrel with sneering eyes. He’s dealt with her kind before. “You’re a frog!” 

“I do not appreciate the term, and neither does France,” Axel tells her. “Would you be willing to testify?”

“It was bloody awful,” she screeches. “Couldn’t even see what went on! I did see the men, though. They were goin’ after a little girl.”

“Can you describe her?” says Axel.

“Brown hair…five foot three. Other than that, no. Don’t you have cameras on the corners?” she scoffs.

“Not here in the square. Too many people,” Axel admits. He mingles with the other witnesses, but finds that they, like the banshee he first questioned, were not privy to the event’s intended targets—or any dialogue exchanged. He only knows about a girl and a larger man who shot the three. No physical description other than huge and blonde. “That’s all you know?” Axel prompts another “witness.” 

“You’re the bloke who’s trackin’ the Specter, ain’t you?” the man replies.

“Yes,” Axel grits out.

“How’s that goin’?” he snickers. A tidal wave of red-hot fury and shame surges in Axel’s belly, and he wills himself to calm, but he cannot. His heart is already pounding and he needs a cigarette dammit. 

“I think you already know,” growls Axel. 

“You lot’re pathetic,” the man laughs. “One guy, can’t even catch ‘im.”

“There is no evidence,” snarls Axel. 

“Doesn’t stop you from tryin’, does it?” the man says with a self-satisfied relaxation of his shoulders as he reclines into the ambulance, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted upward defiantly. “You’ll never catch the bastard if you ask me.”

“Well I didn’t ask you,” snaps Axel. 

“Sir, we found something on the second body,” a policeman informs him. 

“The one that got run over?” Axel asks. The policeman nods. Axel follows the man into the street, squinting as the flashes of cameras burn the edges of his vision like an old photograph. He reaches the labeled evidence surrounding the man. 

“Thanks for bein’ here,” Jack says, peering at Axel’s attire. “I know it’s been hard for you recently-”

“What’s with the body?” Axel interrupts him. 

“There’s skin under his nails,” Jack points out. “The lab’s runnin’ it as we speak.”

“Good. Then this’ll be closed by the end of the week?” Axel asks, massaging the bridge of his nose to soothe his throbbing migraine. 

“I reckon so,” Jack says with a noncommittal shrug. “Up for a pint?”

“Can’t. Sick,” Axel explains. 

“Sorry ‘bout that, mate. Can’t be easy, chasin’ after the Specter the way you do. Sleep deprivation isn’t the only thing eatin’ you, is it?” Jack says, taking Axel aside. “You’re one of our best, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not alone when I say that you need some time off-”

“The Specter just killed again if the vibration in my pocket is anything to go by,” Axel cuts him off. “I hope this case is closed quickly.” Jack nods. Axel glances back at the mangled corpse in the road, eyes wide. There is no fear on that face. There is only acceptance. 

Axel looks away.

\---

“Five bodies in the middle of Times Square,” Danny marvels aloud as his eyes dart over the police report. 

“You wanna take it?” Penelope teases him.

“Fuck yeah!” exclaims Danny. His smile dims after reading another sentence. “Oh, fuck.”

“What is it, Danny?” sighs Penelope, turning in her chair.

“They’ve barely got a case, and from what I can see, it looks like all five were hitmen,” Danny responds. “And they were gonna kill a teenage girl.”

“This looks like investigative reporting material. Go down and find it,” Penelope encourages him. Danny nods stiffly, printing the report. 

He just graduated from NYU with a bachelor’s in journalism, and this will be his first story. He hopes it’ll be a good one.


End file.
